A Winter's Walk

I've always considered myself an autumn-type of gal. Fall-ish. Something about the start of the school year cuing me to put in motion all of the "goals" I've laid out for myself. The kaleidoscope effect from the colors of the turning leaves. The hint of wood burning from those people still left with an actual fireplace. The cooler weather. The lower angle of the sun. Being able to return to my denim, boot, scarf attire. Knowing that the boys are happily engaged in the football game on the screen and I am able to flit around as I see fit. Soup, soup and more soup.

As I've grown older though, fall still has all of those qualities but it has become increasingly busy. What with all of the fall sports. The new fall schedules to manage. The lead-in to the holidays. The holidays themselves. Fall leaves me exhausted.

Which is why I now look for refuge in winter.

I stole away from my house this morning after treating myself to a nourishing bowl of yogurt and "Do-It-Yourself Granola" with a drizzle of honey on top. I left behind my lego strewn home (Are we sensing there's a problem with Lego management in our household?) and headed outside to try and clear my mind.

The first deep chill to hit me had me reconsidering my walk but I continued on and my body grew accustomed to the temperature. I slipped on my knitted mittens, breathed deeply and set off down the trail. Not many people out. Neighbors gone for the holidays. People staying bundled inside. I felt as though I had the whole neighborhood to myself and I found it rather peaceful.

I love the long shadows of winter.

I admire the unabashed nakedness of the bare trees.

The bit of cold, winter wind hitting my face was invigorating as I breathed it in. (Or, it could have been the caffeine from the latte I was drinking but either way....)

I heard the quacks of a few ducks staying put for the winter off in the distance. The rare car engine as it hummed by. A lone hawk squawked from high up in the trees but other than the sound of my feet crunching on the gravel, these were the only sounds I heard.

Winter doesn't have the obligations that the other seasons have. The yard is dormant. The feeling that "I should go here" or "I should go there" doesn't exist because it's too cold or too rainy to go here or there. We stay inside, always a little drowsy....perhaps a lack of Vitamin D or some instinctual hibernation effect...and we are forced to slow down. To spend time with one another. To really have the time to look each other in the eyes and pay attention. And, we have the time to consider the balance of our lives so that when the blanket of winter lifts, we are restored.

As I made my way back up the hill, heavy, white clouds were closing over the blue skies that had accompanied me on my walk. By the time I reached my home, the tiniest of snow flakes were softly, drifting down from the sky. Before long, three inches had gathered and sent the children flying outside, leaving me with a quiet, (albeit, lego strewn) peaceful home. And, from inside my warm, cozy house, I could gaze outside and admire the ethereal beauty of winter.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

A Plate Full of Cookies.....

Portland had been frozen over by one of our annual ice storms but I bravely stepped into my car. Slowly and carefully, I made my way across town. A virtual ice pond. The streets were all but deserted. An odd stillness to the city surrounded me. My trek across town seemed suspicious. As though I shouldn't be out on the streets and shouldn't I know that. But, I had to get there. I had to get my plate of Christmas cookies.

One year, the hill to my home rendered me unable to make the journey but two days later, my plate full of cookies was hand delivered.

Last year, after a foot (or two) of snow was dumped on the city leaving everyone stranded at home, my box of cookies arrived via the only group known to deliver through "sleet and snow"...that, of course, being the US Postal Service.

Every year without fail, one of my oldest and dearest friend...oldest as in, she's known me over half my life. As in, there are no pretensions because there is nothing to hide. As in, when I am in her presence I am nothing but me...spends 48 straight hours in the kitchen with her mother, baking batch after batch of Christmas cookies and candy. Ten, fifteen, twenty different kinds. "What do they do with all of those scrumptious little bites?" you may ask. Why, after the baking marathon is over, they invite over their friends and family to bring a plate and fill it up with their little "labors of love"...as my mother would say.

This year, we, my daughter and I, splashed our way across town. We shared a cup of coffee, a cup of cider. We taste-tested the delectable goods. We admired the Christmas tree. We chatted with my dear friend, her mother and her darling, Christmas-sweater clad Granny who was still making it to the cookie party even after a century in this life. We filled our plate to the brim and an extra one with just my favorite...the almond roca. Hugs good-bye and "Merry Christmas" wished to all. We dashed out the door to the car managing to keep our treats safe from the rain.

My daughter clutched the precious plate of cookies as we drove off for home. And then, she says to me, with a hint of amazement and genuine gratitude in her voice, "Mom, that was so...so...generous of her." I turned to her and replied, "That was generous, wasn't it?" And, we continued to ponder on that act of generosity, as we sped toward home where the boys were certain to be waiting for this year's plate of cookies.

Hoping a plate full of generosity arrives at your home this holiday season and follows you throughout the New Year. "See" you in 2010, my friends!

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Simple, Yet Elegant, Stuffed Mushrooms

My back was on fire. My fingers were like dough. My hiney felt as though I'd been sitting on a cement curb for 6 hours waiting for the start of some parade. And, I could no longer deny that I do indeed need some form of optical assistance. What I could have whipped out with minimal practicing, twenty-years ago, now required hours, days, weeks at the piano; however, I did not breathe a word of my aches and pains to my main squeeze. I did not want the "glutton for punishment" speech.

Not but a few weeks earlier, I had gleefully agreed to play the piano at the 70th Birthday party for a dear friend's mother. A show tunes sing-along. Soloists. Women dressed in cocktail dresses from various decades. Men in vintage tuxedos. Gimlets being served upon entering. Cole Porter playing in the background. A stately, 100-year old home. "No gifts please" but donations graciously received for the Letty Owings Center. And, at the center of it all, a grand piano. How could I refuse?

As I grabbed the stack of music and stepped out of the car into the frigid air toward the century-old mansion bathed in twinkling lights, I hoped I wouldn't make a fool of myself. My daughter and I rapped on the door and were immediately escorted into a picture of elegance with candlelight dancing everywhere against a background of carved wood molding and guests mingling, glasses in hand, in front of a magnificent staircase.

I declined the gimlet (I needed all my wits possible) and headed to the piano for the run-through. Only the night prior, one of the soloists had called me in a panic, wanting to lower the music key of the song. "I need it to start on the A below middle C and I'm going for a Patty Austin jazz style." I was only able to grant her request thanks to the invention of the internet and so, with me at the piano and she singing away in her veiled pill box hat and siren red nails, we pulled off a respectable run through. Soloist Two in her little black dress, her mane of beautiful blond hair and her multiple strands of pearls was quite a bit more comfortable in the lime-light and her run-through went off without a hitch.

And so, the party went....greetings and laughter. Air kisses and warm embraces. Dim lights and sparkling rhinestones. Clicking glasses and trays of hors d'oeuvres. Coats being whisked up the staircase. A table full of delectable finger foods. Stuffed mushrooms at center stage.

We gathered in the living room before an enormous fireplace to "roast" the Birthday girl in her svelte black dress from the late 60's, her peter pan collar of rhinestones and the gardenia tucked behind her ear. Friends and family from different decades of her life took the stage to regale us with stories about her and as they followed, one after the other, a theme took shape. A theme, which grew from the thought that the Birthday Girl was lying about her age. That there was no possible way she was 70. That she didn't look a day past 50. Poems were recited. Letters were read. All debating the age of the Birthday Girl. At one point we all joined in on an original rap song which had us shouting out over and over, "...and she's still hot! ....and she's still hot! ....and she's still hot" Every woman's dream. I started pining away for my 70th Birthday Party.

The soloists were up next. A few gimlets too many, left the pill box beauty wordless but she hummed, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, beautifully. Soloist Two sang My Funny Valentine in a lovely, awe-inspiring vibrato and was completely free of inhibitions thanks, again, to the elegant little gimlet. Upon the conclusion of their songs, words were passed out and the sing-along began. One song after another....Oklahoma, Cabaret, Wouldn't It Be Loverly, Some Enchanted Evening, I Dreamed A Dream. And, not just the women. Rounding out the four part harmony, I could clearly detect the tenor and bass. And, as I played with the voices surrounding the piano, the light dancing off the walls, the genuine jubilation of the guests, I was grateful to have been included in this momentous occasion. The "back on fire" had been worth it. Of course, the late hour, the gimlets (again), the inability to resist over-dramatizing while singing songs such as Memory left my daughter wide-eyed with a half-smile as she innocently observed these "adults" enjoying the festivities.

At some point, the lid to the keys was put down. Coats were passed out and guests disappeared into the clear, cold night. Shivering, we hopped into the car. My daughter's eyes betrayed her sleepiness as we stole away across the river. And, I smiled to myself while I drove, secretly planning my Septuagenarian Birthday party.

Simple, Yet Elegant, Stuffed Mushrooms

I was inspired to make these little delectable bites from a post by The Pioneer Woman, whom, if you haven't checked her out, is an absolute hoot. And, as I have said before, I do love mushrooms so, of course, I spent my downtime at the above mentioned soiree standing around the finger-food table eating the stuffed mushrooms; however, as much as I love to eat stuffed mushrooms, I really don't enjoy making them. They're messy and time consuming. So, I came up with this little ditty of a recipe. Only 3 ingredients. Fast. Easy. The only hitch is they must be consumed while warm. Once cold...well, it's like eating a cold, grilled cheese sandwich.

15-20 medium-sized white button mushrooms

A hunk of blue cheese (I used the Stilton that they are selling at Costco for the holidays.)

A handful of walnuts, cut into 15-20 "chunks"

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Clean your mushrooms, then pop out the little stem revealing the hidden hollow below. Break off bits of your blue cheese and generously fill the mushroom's hollow with it. Place the stuffed mushrooms on a cookie sheet and pop in the oven for 8 minutes. When the buzzer goes off, pull your cookie sheet out of the oven. Top each mushroom with a piece of walnut and pop back in the oven for another 8-10 minutes. Pull from oven and let sit for 1 minute or so. Then, serve and enjoy....preferably with friends and a glass of champagne.

Yield: 15-20 stuffed mushrooms

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

The Ultimate "Chick" Soup with Butternut Squash and Apples

I love to putter. Putter, as in, being able to wake-up alarmless, make a cup of tea, start to unload the dishwasher and then, leaving the door wide open, satisfy a sudden desire to peruse through my favorite food blogs upon which half-way through the list, I am seized by an urgent need to tidy up the "lego droppings" scattered here and there. Realizing the "trail" is just too long, I abandon that project, plop down on the couch and flip through my book "Life is Meals". After scanning it like a mad woman, I hop up and pay one bill. Satisfied with that progress, I shuffle over to the counter, toast a piece of New Season's unbelievable stollen with the marzipan center, after which I return to finish unloading the dishwasher while enjoying every bite of the sweet, holiday bread with the fruit bits. (Either I have a mild case of ADD or I'm hoping to provide inspiration for an adult version of Laura Numeroff's books.)

Now, I need to be able to putter for at least two mornings a week. Doesn't matter which days, but it must be two. If I don't get this putter time, my face starts to freeze up with stress from being overscheduled. The muscles around my eyes become so hardened I feel as though I have owl eyes and I'm sure to onlookers, my pinched face looks something like this. So, here we are in the midst of the holidays and do you think I'm getting my putter time? What, with all the buying and parking and dashing through the rain and wrapping and ribbon tying and baking and singing and piano playing and eating and addressing and cooking and driving and basketball game watching and cleaning and painting and edging and taping and clutter-busting. (A few weekends ago, I was seized by a sudden urge to paint the 10-year old's bedroom. Why on earth...?) And, then, there's all the noise, noise, noise, noise from the over-excited children hyped up on sugar. Calgon? Wine? Tylenol PM? No, I was going on at least, Day 17 of no puttering.

I have dear friends who will not disagree with the thought that I may be genetically defected in regards to my "femaleness". I do not like to shop. I start to hyperventilate inside malls. The claustrophobia. I did not get the shopping gene. I loathe it. I would rather rake leaves. A few years ago, my dear, dear, sweet husband realized that he must take over the bulk of the Christmas shopping in order to save the sanity of his genetically defected wife. This summer, as my daughter was skipping through the mall, acquiring articles of clothing for "Back to School," I was sitting on the infamous "bench" texting my husband statements such as, "Please don't let this be my last day on earth." "Save me."

When I left the house this morning, my face was frozen up like the "Icewoman Cometh." I dropped the 4-year old off at his playdate, whipped into his preschool to play the piano for the delightful 3-year old Holiday Performance and then, glancing at the clock and my list of errands (which included a reluctant trip to the mall), concluded that I had exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes to hit 6 places...which, if I did my math right, would be exactly 12.5 minutes per each stop and I had yet to factor in the driving time...before the playdate was over. Overwhelmed and struck by indecision, I headed to Powell's. It was out of the way. Not even the highest priority on the list but there I went, almost on auto-pilot.

As I walked into that City of Books, I immediately started to relax. Something about the way that row after row of books somehow seems to diminish the hard edges of noise. Absorbing the sound. Making it quieter. More hushed. As I strolled past the stacks of untapped knowledge, latte in hand, my mind started to think less about my list of errands and more about the possibility of finding a good book. I found myself looking at each spine, pulling the captivating ones from the shelf, turning them over, flipping open the jacket flap, putting them back and moving on to the next one. I went from cooking to staff favorites to travel to children's. I found the pile in my basket growing as I tossed in books I was just sure would cause the children to squeal with excitement upon finding them under the tree. I lost track of time as I continued down every row, putting in a few for me "From Santa". Yes, I was puttering. My spirits were lifted. I was excited. My mind seemed less burdened. My face less frozen. I thought, "This is how most women must feel puttering around a shoe department."

I didn't make it to one other stop on my list and barely made it in time to pick-up my littlest one. With him in tow, we headed for home. Starving, I heated up a mug of leftover Butternut Squash and Apple soup from my annual holiday dinner with my one-of-a-kind book club. (aka: The Amazing Book Babes.) Making sure the littlest one was out-of-site...creating yet another "trail of legos", I'm sure...I pulled the books from the bag. I smiled at the thought of the recipient opening up each book for the first time. To discover. To imagine. To lose track of time. So, maybe it's not shopping I loathe but certain kinds of shopping. As long as it feels like puttering, well, then, I guess it's alright by me.

The Ultimate "Chick" Soup with Butternut Squash and Apples

(Ina Garten's Butternut Squash and Apple Soup)

My husband, my brother-in-law and other males I have been associated with throughout my life have been known to relegate certain foods to the "Chick's Only" category. These food items include, but are not limited to, quiche, risotto, brie, spinach salad with dried fruit bits, chopped nuts and crumbled gorgonzola and this butternut squash and apple soup. Well, I don't care. I love it but then, I'm a chick. I find it has just the perfect amount of curry to counter the sweetness of the apples and squash. So, the next time you get together with the girls, take the little bit of extra effort to put this soup together. You'll please the vegetarians and the gluten-frees alike. I follow Ina's recipe exactly as written, so you can make it from here or click on the link above and go to the Food Network page where you can print it out should you so desire.

2 tbsp unsalted butter

2 tbsp good olive oil

4 cups, chopped yellow onions (3 large)

2 tbsp mild curry powder

5 pounds butternut squash (2 large)

1 1/2 pounds sweet apples, such as McIntosh (4 apples) I used Golden Delicious

2 tsp kosher salt

1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper

2 cups good apple juice or cider

Warms the butter and olive oil in a large stockpot over low heat. Add the onions and curry powder and cook, uncovered, for 15 to 20 minutes, until the onions are tender. Stir occasionally, scraping the bottom of the pot.

Peel the squash, cut in half and remove the seeds. Cut the squash into chunks. Peel, quarter and core the apples. Cut into chunks.

Add the squash, apples, salt, pepper and 2 cups of water to the pot. Bring to a boil, then cover, reduce the heat to low and cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the squash and apples are very soft. Now, Ina's directions are as follows: Process the soup through a food mill fitted with a large blade or puree it coarsely in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade; however, I do not partake in that kind of cooking craziness. I simply whip out my 17-year old hand held blender and puree the soup right in the pot.

Add the apples juice and enough water to make the soup the consistency you like; it should be slightly sweet and quite thick. Check the salt and pepper and serve hot.

Yield: 3 1/2 quarts

All original text and photographs, copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Braised Pacific Halibut with Mushrooms and Leeks

While my dear, sweet husband would prefer to remain anonymous on these here pages of "La Pomme" or at least, keep to the role of an extra...an extra, as in, one of the 70,000 in the stands of the filming of a great sports film...I do feel that there is something you should know about him. He is a man who knows what he likes. And, once he's locked on to that...tea brand, yogurt and granola pairing, holiday cookie from Trader Joe's...there is no deviating. Now, this is a good thing, especially if you're me. He's locked on to me and I don't have to worry. However, because of his highly "distinguished palate," preparing a meal for my guy can sometimes be...challenging. So, when his hunting and gathering takes him out of town, my mind starts racing and I immediately start thinking about all of the dishes I can prepare in his absence especially those involving mushrooms...for those fungi have never made my sweetie's "like list."

So, after a flurry of chopping and slicing and simmering and scooping and my man far, far away, I laid before my three children bowls of braised halibut with mushrooms and leeks for dinner. My anticipation of enjoying this fine meal could barely be contained. I sat down with excitement twinkling in my eyes. But, while the presentation was beautiful and the children dutifully ate their meal, somehow it was anti-climatic. There we sit. Just me and the three kids. Eating our meal. And then, sure enough, the 10-year old someone farts and it's all down hill from there. Somehow it seemed silly to have gone the extra effort for my off-spring when, honestly, they would have been just as happy with Costco chicken nuggets, frozen peas and applesauce.

I cleaned up the meal and headed up for the bedtime routine. Glancing at the chair in my daughter's room, I sighed. There would be no lounging in that chair, eavesdropping on my man and the littlest one through the wall as they "rehearsed" their rendition of "Up On the Rooftop" for the Preschool Holiday Program. The silence from the downstairs was almost haunting. No Sportscenter. No hollering from my sweetie to the 10-year old to "Get down here and check out this play." And, once I had the boys down and was scooping up the trail of legos left by the mysterious and elusive "Lego Poopin' Rabbit" that apparently inhabits our house, I glanced downstairs expecting to see my daughter snuggled up next to her Daddy watching their favorite show. But, no. They weren't there. So, although I was able to eat my mushrooms tonight which were quite tasty, somehow the pleasure was lessened by the absence of the one who matters most which gives rise to the question, "Is food really more pleasurable when it's shared?" Perhaps there is some truth to that.

Oh, gads. Look what I've done. I've gone and talked about my main squeeze. The guy who wants to keep his contributions to our lives anonymous. We'll just keep this a little secret between you and me. Shhh. Maybe he won't read this and then, he'll never know. Deal?

Braised Pacific Halibut with Mushroom and Leeks

(Inspired by a recipe of a similar name from Fine Cooking, October 2009)

For years, I didn't cook fish, only ordered it in restaurants. I don't know why. Somehow the whole process seemed to intimidate me. Now, the older, wiser me can't be stopped. We eat a lot of fish. Don't be put off by the "rawther fawncy" title of this recipe. It is so quick that it is worthy of weeknight status especially if you buy the mushrooms that have already been sliced. And, while the recipe calls for halibut sometimes I just can't stomach the price for that meaty guy and so, I've made this with petrale sole as well which is good but does tend to fall apart easily. I'm sure cod would be another tasty alternative. Enjoy.

2 tbsp butter

2 tbsp olive oil

1/2 pound, white button mushrooms, thinly, sliced (about 4 cups) (Feel free to use whatever your favorite mix of mushrooms might be.)

2 large leeks, white and light-green parts only, thinly sliced (about 4 cups)

4 cups lower-salt chicken broth

1/2 cup of dry, white wine

5 skinless Pacific halibut fillets (about 4 oz each)

1 tbsp finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

Melt the butter and heat the oil over medium heat in a deep, straight sided saute pan with a lid. Add the mushrooms and leeks and season lightly with salt and pepper. Cook gently, stirring occasionally, until softened but not browned, 7 to 8 minutes. Add the broth and wine, raise the heat to medium high, and bring to a boil.

Season the halibut with salt and pepper. Nestle the fish among the vegetables in the skillet. Bring the broth back to a boil, cover tightly, and reduce the heat to low. Cook gently until the fish is just cooked through, about 7 minutes.

Serve the fish in shallow soup bowls, surrounded by the mushrooms, leeks and broth. Sprinkle the chopped parsley on top.

Yield: 5 servings....

All original text and photographs, copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Cinnamon-Apple Crostata & Tea, Of Course

Then he sat in his favorite chair, drank a cup of hot peppermint tea and ate a slice of bread with honey on it. The farmer felt very cozy and a bit tired.

"Dream Snow" by Eric Carle

I wish I could say to you, dear friend, that I spent my college years drinking coffee, or even tea, in a rather sophisticated manner at some off-beat coffee house and reading the "great works of literature" cover to cover. But, alas, that was not to be. No, I was the Coca-cola, Mountain Dew guzzling Cliff Note reader. (Although, now, I find myself going back and actually reading the "great works" to see what I missed out on.) The closest I came to sipping a hot beverage was the cinnamon spiced cider my mother always served us during the holidays.

After those proverbial years of intellectual development, two dear friends and I donned our back-packs and trekked across the great continent of Europe. First stop, England. There we sat in a feed-the-masses tourist trap charming little tea house in London. The white, ornate metal chairs. The red and white patterned table-cloth. The feeling that we were in a glass enclosed conservatory. Like something straight out of Mary Poppins. Actually, now that I think of it, there was something strangely similar between that little British establishment and Burt and Mary's tea time. But, nonetheless, we felt rawther upper-crust surveying our tea menu and preparing ourselves for the delight that was to come. It was as I was perusing this menu that I came to the realization that the only beverage they served at this "tea-house" was, in fact, tea. "Hmm. What shawll I do?" Now, this did not pose a problem for my much more cultured traveling companions who had, indeed, sipped coffee throughout college around a little table with the ever-present vawwse of white tulips. But they held my hand...ordered me some tea and when it came, showed me how to add a little milk, a little honey, a squeeze of lemon and I've never looked back.

Now, I possibly could be referred to as a "tea fanatic". Never without a mug of it in my hand. I start the morning out with my, of course, english breakfast tea complete with a splash of milk and a teardrop of honey. Later in the morning I find myself moving to a Morrocon Mint green tea or, depending on the day, an "Easy Now" stress relief tea. Late afternoon finds me sipping an Earl Grey and by the time evening arrives, I've moved onto peppermint. There's something comforting to me about tea. Perhaps it's the scent. Perhaps it's the way the hot liquid warms me. Or, maybe, it's the simplicity in the mug that I carry around. Such a humble vessel. Maybe it's because there's no filter or pot to clean. Or perhaps it's that I often find myself curled up on my sun-faded couch, book in one hand, tea in the other. Or, curled up on one end of that same couch, tea in one hand and a friend, a child, my mother or my guy curled up on the other. The two of us talking. (Well, my guy doesn't actually curl up but you know what I mean.) Just yesterday, I sat in my kitchen drinking a cup of tea with my father, reminiscing about a recent trip together and paying no heed to the stack of dishes in the sink. The tea gives me a reason to slow down. To sit down. To pay attention. To enjoy the quiet moments. To listen. To be present. To be able to say, "Let me finish my cup of tea...and then, I'll get to it."

I have this idea that I want my children to learn to enjoy a hot beverage - tea, cider, hot chocolate. I want to show them at least one way, in this frenetic life we live, of how to slow down. Sit down. Breathe. Whenever I ask, they always agree to a cup of tea. The eldest prefers the berry flavored teas, the middle one, peppermint and the littlest one, well, he wants Ovaltine "just warm, not hot". They don't often take but one or two sips but they smell it, they wrap their hands around the warm mug and they sit and talk with me.

This morning before sending them out the door into the frigid, below freezing temperatures, I fixed them each a mug of hot (as in scalding hot) chocolate and fed them a slice of Cinnamon-Apple Crostata straight from the oven. Truth be told...I never, let me repeat, NEVER, make them anything warm for breakfast except Quaker Instant Oatmeal but something compelled me to do it this morning. Maybe it was the cold temperatures. Maybe the holiday spirit seized me. Maybe it was our too short of weekend spent together. My not wanting it to end. Trying to keep it going. Maybe it was the guilt I felt for not having put up one Christmas decoration. Whatever it was, I managed to haul my "morning-challenged" body out of bed into the cold, darkness of the house. Our outside thermometer registered at 20 degrees.

With the cinnamon scent of the holidays swirling around them, they sat around that kitchen table, my three children, eating their rather novel breakfast. Sipping their hot drink. Warming up their bodies. Chatting about their school week, the weekend, Christmas. The whole scene was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I almost shed a tear. "Ahh...the early morning hour had been worth this." And, I turned around to continue making their lunches. My back had been turned for not more than a second when I heard the oldest say, "Oh, baby, don't do that. That's where big brother breaks his pencils when he's frustrated with his homework." I look over and there's my littlest one licking his spilled hot chocolate off the table like a dog. The 10-year old then says in his most sinister, bad guy voice, "You ate lead. Now, you're gonna DIE!" Anticipating the tears that were sure to come from thinking he was about to die, I say, "No, no, you're not going to die but licking your hot chocolate off the table probably isn't a good idea. Come over here and get a paper towel." And, with that, the moment was over. But I had my 30-seconds, didn't I? Perhaps a glimpse of more to come? Each successive moment lasting a little longer? And, in a flurry of dishes being dropped into the sink, ("Gently! Don't break the dishes.") and the rustle of coats being put on, they were gone.

Cinnamon-Apple Crostata

Our grocery store is still brimming with those cheery Honeycrisp apples but my children's love for them is starting to wane. Here at the tail end of apple season, they are turning their noses up to the plates of sliced apples I place before them so....in an effort to mix-it-up, I decided to try this little crostata number. Generally, I'm not a huge, pastry gal, but done right, with a butter crust and not too much sugar...well, who can resist. And, since, I'm still experimenting with the whole wheat pastry flour I even managed to get a little of that in as well. I tried it once with all whole wheat pastry flour and the crust didn't hold together very well so, until further notice, I recommend the half and half route. And, if you're like me, which you probably aren't, your home is probably completely decked for the holidays, but once again, on the off-chance that you're like me without nary a bobble in sight, make this little cinnamon number and even if your house doesn't look like the holidays....it will smell like them.

Ingredients:

For the pastry:

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour

1 tsp sugar

1/4 tsp salt

1/4 pound (1 stick) cold, unsalted butter, diced

1 - 2 tbsp ice water

For the filling:

1 1/2 lbs Honeycrisp apple (3 med-lg apples)

1/4 tsp grated orange zest (optional)

1/8 c all-purpose flour

1 tbsp sugar

1/4 tsp salt

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon

pinch of nutmeg

2 tbsp cold, unsalted butter

For the pastry:

Place the flour, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Pulse a few times to combine. Add butter and process until the mixture resembles coarse meal, 8 to 10 seconds.

With machine running, add ice water in a slow, steady stream through feed tube. Pulse until dough holds together without being wet or sticky; be careful not to process more than 30 seconds. Turn the dough onto a floured surface and form into a disk. Wrap with plastic or parchment paper and refrigerate for at least 1 hour and up to a day.

For the filling:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Peel, core and cut the apples into thin, wedges. Set aside.

Combine the flour, sugar, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg (and orange zest if you chose to use it) in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture is crumbly. Pour into a bowl and rub it with your fingers until it starts holding together. And, if you happened to make your dough ahead of time and you don't want to get your food processor out again, you can do all of this with your fingers or a pastry cutter. 

Roll your dough out to an 11-inch circle on a lightly floured surface. Transfer it to a baking sheet that is lined with parchment paper. Cover the crostata dough with the apple slices leaving a 1 1/2 inch border or so. Gently fold the border over the apples to enclose the dough, pleating it to make a circle.

Bake the crostata for 35-40 minutes, until the crust is golden and the apples are tender. Allow to cool. Serve warm or at room temperature. With tea, of course.

PS: Recently I have been trying out the new line of Smith Tea from Steven Smith of Stash and Tazo tea fame. No. 47 Bungalow is particularly delightful.

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Oh, Ye, Benevolent Butternut Squash Minestrone

With Herculean effort, I was dragging the bag, filled with the remnants of my vegetable garden, up the never-ending flight of stairs and muttering to myself about what a hair-brained idea of mine it had been to put the garden back there. What kept me going; however, was knowing that my dear, sweet children were in the front yard, dutifully performing their family project for that weekend - raking the leaves. I was anticipating the relief I would feel once I saw the pristine lawn and beds, all of which was to be made possible by their kindhearted effort.

(Yes, that is a spider man band-aid on my finger. Click here to learn how to peel and dice butternut squash without impaling yourself.)

As I mounted the last stair and peeked around the garage, I was met with silence. I stood there perplexed. Confused. Not a sole (or a rake) in sight. "Huh. Where did they all go?" I looked at the lawn. Better...but still a layer of leaves. The beds were still chock full of leaves and the water run-off gully was still clogged. With my load of yard debris still at my side, I could feel myself getting worked up. I heaved the bag over to the side of the garage and slammed it down. In long, heavy strides, I crossed to the front door, opened it up and yelled, "Where are you guys?" The eldest and the youngest, immediately surfaced, (already sporting slippers and warm sweaters) claiming, "We thought we were done." The 10-year old came out of his commando hiding spot about 10 minutes later, grinning but clearly, guilty. I, meanwhile, had grabbed a rake and started to forcefully rake up at least 10 more piles. Stewing. Talking to myself. Saying things like, "Why do I have to be the only one to do these things?" "What am I raising here...a bunch of royalty?" "Oh, I bet their enjoying their time in front of the TV, playing legos, reading a good book while I'm out here RAKING! In the freezing COLD!"

(In case you were wondering about my main squeeze, he was upstairs doing the laundry. We have a bit of a role reversal here in our family.)

I have found that, sometimes, I do my best parenting when I'm tired, have run out of patience and have worked myself up into a frenzy. So, in that moment of frenetic leaf raking, "The Benevolence Jar" was born.

Later that evening at our family dinner, I presented the concept behind "The Benevolence Jar". (My dear, sister can't get past the fact that I named it The Benevolence Jar and yes, maybe that was a bit over the top but still...it sounds important, distinguished.)

"Do you know what benevolence means? Anyone?" Silence. "I define benevolence as not just being kind but having the wisdom to know why you are being kind. Like last night, Daddy picked up dinner for us, served it and did all the dishes to be kind, yes, but also, because he knew I was tired. When you say, "Good Morning," to your brothers and sisters you do it to be kind, yes, but also to show that you care about them." I went on with more examples, a speech about how a family needs to operate like a team with everyone pitching in and so on and so forth. Unsure of what was to come, the kids remained silent. Then, I laid two jars on the table. One filled halfway with pennies. One empty but labeled "Benevolence."

"You three will need to work together to fill "The Benevolence Jar." You do so by performing one or more of these acts of kindness that I've put here on the list." I unrolled the single spaced list, at least three sheets long, that I had typed up upon coming inside from the leaf frenzy. "I will tape this to the refrigerator for your reference."

"Each night at dinner we will go around the table and you can toot your own horn about the kind things you have done that day in regards to our family. You're on the honor system here since I can't be watching you at every moment. Should you behave selfishly or cruelly to members of this family, well, then, a penny will come out of the benevolence jar and you will need to earn it again. Once the jar is filled, I will treat you to a trip to Skinnidip, a round of bowling, an afternoon movie or an evening of board games. Your choice. We start tomorrow." From the sparkle I detected in their eyes, I could tell that the game was on.

For the first week, pennies were going in the jar for clearing dishes, emptying backpacks and lunch boxes without complaining, remembering to say, "Good morning" or "How was your day?" to family members. The boys were the first ones to have pennies come out of the jar, one for teasing, one for biting. I packed up those jars and hauled them with us to Central Oregon where we spent a glorious, snowy Thanksgiving week with Nana and Papa. Have benevolence, will travel.

As the days went by, I began to notice a difference in their behavior. Instead of busting past his little brother to get to the sink first for hand-washing, the 10-year old consciously slowed down and let his brother go first. I found them asking more and more often, "Is there anything else I can do?" "Mom, can I clear your dishes?" Of course, there were times when the whole process was a bit questionable, such as when the 12-year old, in teen-speak, says to the teary, 4-year old, "Hey, I'm sorry I said "Chilladelphia" to you, but you are waaaaay past spicy." To which he replies, "I just don't want to hear that." To which, I comment, "Thank you for using your words to tell your sister that instead of screaming." And, the competitive, 10-year old, focused on filling the jar, perks up, saying, "Penny in the jar?"

Back at home, the eve before returning to school/work, I put down bowls of Butternut Squash Minestrone (aka: Old Mother Hubbard Went to the Cupboard and These Were the Ingredients She Found) and some warm, cheddar biscuits. Six pennies were left to be put in "The Benevolence Jar." At this point, however, they were pros and they ticked them right off with things like, "Not only helping us load and pack the car for coming home without complaining but asking us what else you could do to help even when that meant taking out the garbage." "For waiting and allowing your sister to climb into the back of the car first instead of busting your way in and making her climb over you." And the last penny, went in for the littlest one, "For not acting goofy when sitting on Santa's lap. Nicely talking to him about your list and explaining the pictures you drew. Remembering to tell him "Thank You" when you were done."

As with anything, I'm sure the novelty will wear off, but I can enjoy it for now, can't I? And, perhaps, if I can get one last, "job well-done" family rake project under my belt, it will all be worth it.

When we were done eating, the 10-year old dumped the pennies out of "The Benevolence Jar" and back to their starting position. He then, flipped a penny back into the jar, and skipped off toward the kitchen sink, hollering, "Cleared my dishes without complaining." And so, we begin again.

Oh, Ye, Benevolent Butternut Squash Minestrone

As I'm sure you can relate, I returned home after a week of being gone, to rather bare cupboards. Not in the mood to head out to the grocery store, I decided to evaluate what I had on hand. The rather, phallic, butternut squash that had been sitting on the counter for weeks immediately cried out to me as if it was equipped with an alarm. And, so, I built this soup dish around him. Not having any bread on hand either, I pulled out this old biscuit recipe from the recipe box and threw in a handful of minced chives from the chives in my yard who have clearly not read the memo stating that winter is almost here and it's time to stop growing. Enjoy.

2 tbsp olive oil

1 leek, white and light green parts, chopped

1 med onion, chopped

1 1/2 c carrots, about 3, diced

2 celery stalks, diced

1 1/2 c butternut squash, diced (dice up and freeze your remaining squash for future recipes)

4 sprigs of thyme

2 tbsp fresh sage, chopped

1 bay leaf

1/2 tsp salt

1/4 tsp black pepper

2 qt chicken broth

2 med white boiling potatoes, cubed

1 15-oz can of cannellini beans, drained and rinsed

1/2 cup orzo pasta

freshly, grated parmesan cheese

Heat your olive oil in a large soup pot. Add your leek, onion, carrots and celery and saute about 10 minutes, until your onions are transluscent. Add your butternut squash, thyme, sage, bay leaf, salt and pepper and potatoes to the pot. Pour in your chicken stock, cover and bring to a boil. With your lid askew, simmer for about 30-40 minutes or until your veggies are soft. Add the beans and the pasta. At a high simmer, cook for another 10 minutes, or until pasta is cooked through. If you plan to let your soup simmer on the stove for longer than 40 minutes, do not add your beans and pasta until closer to when you plan to serve your soup.

Ladle into shallow bowls and serve with the parmesan cheese and salt and pepper. Add a basket of warm biscuits and some sliced, apples or pears and dinner is served.

Yield: A big "pot-full." Enough for a family of 5 with leftovers to pop into thermoses the next day for lunch away from home.

Cheddar Cheese Biscuits

1 1/2 c white flour

1 1/2 c whole, wheat pastry flour

1 1/2 tbsp baking powder

1 tbsp sugar

2 1/4 tsp salt

2 1/2 c heavy cream

1 cup grated, sharp cheddar cheese

2 tbsp minced chives (optional)

3 tbsp butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Combine flour, baking powder, sugar and salt in a large bowl. Add cream, cheese and chives and stir gently with a wooden spoon, mixing just until dough holds together.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface. Knead once or twice, just enough to incorporate cream and cheese into flour mixture. Handle dough as little as possible, or biscuits will not rise.

Roll out dough about 1" thick on a lightly floured work surface. Cut with a 1 3/4" biscuit cutter or a champagne flute. Place biscuits about 2" apart on ungreased cookie sheets, then set aside for 10 minutes. Allowing dough to rest at this stage will produce taller, lighter biscuits. (Biscuits, once cut, may be frozen.)

Melt butter in a small skillet over low heat, then cool slightly. (Or pop in the microwave for about 20 seconds.) Brush biscuit tops with butter. Bake until golden brown, about 20 minutes. Serve warm from the oven.

Biscuits are best eaten immediately, but can be reheated for 5-10 minutes in a 300 degree oven. Frozen biscuits may be baked without thawing. Bake in a preheated 300 degree oven for 20 minutes, then increase heat to 350 degrees and bake for 5 more minutes.

Yield: about 40 biscuits. I have "halved" this recipe with great success.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009