A Fragrant Oatmeal with Cinnamon Apples to Enjoy During the Quiet Moments

"Well, we're in the midst of it." You hear yourself say to yourself with a sigh. Winter Break. Christmas Vacation. The "Holidays". And, you want to be that Mom. Really you do. You know, the one who is fun all the time. But you see, you have a "noise aversion". And with each day that draws Christmas nearer your children become that much more excitable. Louder. And you become that much more irritable. Cranky. But, you can't really be angry with them. No. Because they are truly just giddy with glee. And you want to feel their glee but all you feel is the pounding.

The pounding brought on by your sweet 13-year old daughter, who for no real apparent reason other than sheer joy, starts running through the house. And, at almost 5 feet 8 inches tall....bless her heart....well, those are loud footsteps. And of course, her brothers who adore her every move (especially the 11-year old) start following her, swinging over the furniture like chimpanzees. And then the 5-year old, who isn't quite as adept at the "swinging" as his older brother, gets stuck atop a chair and almost knocks over a snow globe as he tries to swing his leg around...a gigantic snow globe. (Never mind the fact that they are not even supposed to be "climbing on the furniture".) It's at that instant that you feel the stress level in your body move up a notch.

But somehow you keep moving forward. Stress and all. Checking things off your list. And you manage to get everyone into bed after which you collapse into yours and fall sound asleep. Only to wake up at 5:30am thinking about what you need to get done that day.

So, you quietly slip out from under the covers and head downstairs. You flick on the lights of the Christmas tree which sparkle against the windows and a still dark sky. You sit down at your worn kitchen table...the one that has stoically held up after years and years of "art" projects....with your cup of tea. In the background, your current favorite rendition of Silent Night is playing. Silent Night. Your favorite Christmas carol. The one you sing to your 5-year old every time you tuck him in. The one you used to sing to your older children until it was too awkward to tuck them in with a lullaby. And you enjoy the stillness of the moment.

It's not long before you hear a door open and then, the sound of lego pieces "clicking" against each other. The 5-year old is up. You rise from your seat and head into the kitchen. As you stand at the counter slicing apples and pears, you notice that the sky is starting to brighten. Your slices quietly saute in butter, brown sugar and cinnamon and your oatmeal gently gurgles next to them. Your two eldest slip down the stairs...awoken by the warm smells. They both have those sleepy eyes. You know the ones. Those eyes, no matter how old they get, are the same ones that looked at you when they were sleepy babies.

You call them over to the table and set down bowls of oatmeal topped with the cinnamon apples in front of them. Your husband kisses you on the cheek as he heads off to work and for just a moment, everyone is awake and everyone is calm.

And then, the sugar from the apples hits their systems and its back to swinging over the furniture but you tell yourself you can persevere through the chaos because you know tomorrow morning, a little slice of calm will be waiting for you.

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas...Happy Holidays...Season's Greetings! Wherever you are and whatever you may celebrate, I hope a little bit of silence finds you amidst the bustle of the holiday season.


I'll "see" you after we ring in 2011. Happy New Year!

Fragrant Oatmeal Topped with Spiced Apples

I love oatmeal. It's probably my favorite breakfast dish. I'm always trying to find ways to entice the kids to eat the homemade version as opposed to the kind that comes in a little packet. They LOVED this. If you don't like your oatmeal too "milky", you can always substitute water for the milk. I prefer that my oatmeal isn't too sugary but you can add more honey if you like yours fairly sweet. Also, you can substitute the apples with a good baking pear such as Bosc if you'd like.

Ingredients:
1 c milk
1/2 to 1 c water (less water equals a thicker oatmeal)
1 c rolled oats
A pinch of kosher salt
1/2 tsp vanilla
1 tsp honey
2 tbsp unsalted butter
2 baking apples, peeled, cored and thinly sliced (Braeburn, Golden Delicious, Honeycrisp, etc.)
2 tbsp light brown sugar (I didn't pack mine down too tightly.)
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
1/8 tsp ground allspice
1/8 tsp ground cloves

Optional: toasted walnut pieces

Directions:
In a medium saucepan over medium heat, bring your milk, water and salt to a boil. Stir in your oats and vanilla. Reduce heat and let simmer on very low heat 5-15 minutes depending on the consistency that you like your cereal. Stirring occasionally. Once it's done cooking, stir in your honey, remove from heat and set aside.

Meanwhile, in a large non-stick pan, melt your butter. Add your apples, brown sugar, cinnamon, allspice and cloves. Saute, stirring occasionally, until your apples are tender, about 5 minutes.

Spoon your oatmeal evenly into four bowls. Top with your cinnamon apples and sprinkle with walnuts, if desired. Enjoy....

Yield: 4 small bowls of oatmeal or two large ones







All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009-2010

"Rustic" Pear Tart

I'm not ashamed to admit that when the 10-year old's coach suggested that we get his wrist checked out, my first thought was not the welfare of my child, but the fact that this checking out would occur on my one free day. Well, one of two free days. Those precious days during the week when all the chickens have flown the coop and the house is silent. Could it really be that bad? I know he's been cradling the wounded wrist in the palm of his other hand like a fragile bird for two days now, but come on...does this really warrant a trip to the doctor's office? Which will then result in a trip to the radiologist? Which will take up the whole day?

I picked him up from school mid-morning and we headed down the windy road through Forest Park. He was giddy. Like he'd just drawn a "Get Out of School FREE" card. After checking in, we tried to quarantine ourselves in the corner of the waiting room wishing we'd brought face masks to guard ourselves against the big, bad swine flu viruses floating around the room. He asked me, "Do I have to go back to school after this?"

"If this is it, yes. If you end up getting x-rays, no. There won't be enough time."

As we made our way out of the building with his x-ray slip in hand, I could tell that my 10-year old was resisting the urge to skip.

I find that I have the opportunity to spend time alone with my daughter, as well as the baby, but this guy...well, it always seems I'm with him...and someone else. As we crunched our way down the leaf strewn sidewalks of northwest Portland toward the radiologist, I found myself putting my arm around him. Tussling his hair. All of which he tolerated for approximately 10 seconds before pulling away. But still...

There wasn't time to get him back to school after the x-rays were successfully taken; however, we still had a bit of time before my other chickens would be headed home. There was, in fact, something I'd been wanting to talk to him about and now that I had him all to myself, I suggested, "Let's go up to Pittock Mansion and take a quick look around. It's such a beautiful day. The mountains are probably out and you can name all of the bridges for me." (Naming the Portland Bridges is quite the badge of honor around our household...it's the little things in life.)

As we walked around the grounds, taking in the splendor of the late fall beauty and looking off at Mt. Hood in the distance, I draped my arm around his shoulders and said, "So, I've been wanting to talk to you about something. Something really serious. Something I can only talk to you about now that you're 10."

I had been trying to set the mood for this by taking some pensive pictures of him.

But he would have none of that.

So, I just came right out with it and as I spoke, I could see him tense and the gears of his mind working backwards trying to recall any little clue as to what this could be about. "I heard you and your sister talking the other day about....pause...Santa Claus. About how you know it's just Mom and Dad."

He immediately fired back with, "What?? Mom?? Ahhh. I don't want you to tell me that."

"But," I stammered. "I heard you two talking. You know. I heard you say you figured it out because Dad bought something when you were at Target with him and then it showed up under the tree 'From Santa'."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't want you to tell me."

"Well, sweetie, now that you know, I need to talk to you about it. You have a very important job to do now that you know the truth."

"What?"

"You need to keep the secret. You cannot ruin it for your little brother. When he's your age he will figure it out on his own but for now, you have to keep the secret going."

There's no lack of the older brother taunting the younger brother with his superior intellectual knowledge and I didn't want the secret of Santa Claus to be the fall-out victim in this show of superiority. We continued to chat about it. About comments his friends had made regarding the jolly old man. About the importance of honoring the younger sibling's right to be...young. About other clues that led to the discovery.

"Like last year, there was a 50% off tag on my General Grievous lego set."

We had finished our rounds up at the mansion. It was time to be heading home. He seemed satisfied with our chat. Satisfied to know that he had an important job to do as keeper of the secret.

On the way home, I realized I had failed to take him on the requisite "after the doctor's office" trip to the ice cream store so I did a mental inventory of ingredients I had at home that would fill this oversight.

As I laid his "fresh from the oven" pear tart in front of him, he slowly looked up at me. One of those furrowed brow, pensive looks and says, "So, Mom?"

Pauses a brief second, and then comes out with it, "So, Mom, who's the Easter Bunny?"

"Rustic" Pear Tart

Here we are in the depths of pear season - "Comice Pear. How I love thee!" - and while I prefer to just keep my pears in a paper bag on the counter, slice them up when they are barely soft to the touch and then, pop those slices in my mouth...if I want to mix it up a bit, I turn to this recipe. Fast. Easy. Looks like you went to a lot of work when really all you did was roll out some pre-made dough and slap some pear slices on it. Yum.

1 sheet, frozen puff pastry, thawed

2 or 3 firm-ripe pears, such as Bosc or Comice

About 2 tbls turbinado sugar, sugar in the raw, or regular, granulated sugar

A few pinches of cinnamon

1 large egg, beaten to blend

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly butter 2 large baking sheets. I suppose you could put down parchment paper here if you are butter-averse. On a floured surface with a floured rolling pin, roll out pastry to 16 by 18 in. Cut pastry in thirds one-way and in half the other. Basically, divide your dough up into 6 equal parts. With a wide spatula (or your fingers), transfer the 6 rectangles to the baking sheets.

Core pears and cut into thin wedges. Arrange, slightly overlapping, on pastry rectangles, leaving approximately a 1-inch border bare (angle slices if necessary). Fold border over edge of pears, stretching slightly and pressing down to hold. (Remember this is a "rustic" tart. No need for perfection.) Brush new edges with egg, then sprinkle turbinado sugar over tarts, especially pastry edges. Then, sprinkle a pinch or two of cinnamon over the pears.

Bake until pastries are richly browned, 25 to 30 minutes. Serve tarts warm from the oven. (Although, straight from the fridge the next morning isn't bad either.) These tarts don't need much of an accompaniment but if you must, "a scoop of vanilla ice cream never hurt anything", as my father always says. Well, "vanilla ice cream and mayonnaise" that is.

Yield: 6 tarts

PS: In case you were wondering, it turned out to be a sprain.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Herbes de Provence Goat Cheese Spread

We are of the opinion, our household that is, that the tooth fairy is an unreliable, flighty little thing. That she is prone to wild mood swings and is picky. Picky, picky, picky. Our dear children, having just survived another round of the molting process, bless their hearts, will wrap their precious little gift, carefully, ever so carefully, in a tissue. I then instruct them to place the tiny object into an envelope, carefully, which they will then seal and place under their pillows to await the arrival of the tooth fairy. More often than not, come morning, their little eyes will be filled with tears instead of joy. The tooth fairy did not come.

Just as disappointed as they are, I shrug and say, “Maybe she doesn’t do envelopes anymore. That’s what I did when I was your age but maybe now, she prefers the box.” “Which box?” “You know. The special little box that holds teeth?” So, into the box the wee bit of ivory goes. And, believe it or not, come morning, there are times when she even snubs the box. To my children’s questioning gaze, I sigh, strike the thinker pose and pause, before exclaiming, “Ah ha! Maybe you just have to leave it out in plain view. Otherwise she can’t…she can’t sniff it out. Her sniffer doesn’t seem to be working.” At which point, they become suspicious.

Say what you will about the tooth fairy, there is; however, one area in which she can be consistently relied on. If her prize is a molar, the payment to the child is always, a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Now, as the child races down the stairs to show me her reward, I brace myself in anxiety-fraught anticipation. You see, to steal a quote from a dear friend, "I should have been born Catholic I have so much guilt." And, as the child opens her sweaty palm to show me the warm coin, I have to force myself not to recoil. Not to recoil away from that face. The face with the look of disappointment on it. The stern, Susan B. Anthony face that seems to say to me, “What are you doing to further my cause? My life’s work? What? What I ask you?!” I quickly fold up the child’s hand, pat her on the head and say, “Good job, now why don’t you go put that somewhere safe.”

I have often pondered what it is I’m doing. What I’m actually doing to further the cause of women put in motion over a hundred years ago. My mood swings between the elation of being alive, at this point in history, where women enjoy freedoms not even conceivable hundreds of years ago and the despondency I feel when I hear the latest report of tragedies incurred by women around the world. And, just when I feel that bit of panic rise up my throat, that feeling of “What can I, one person, possibly do?” I turn on Pink Martini’s Una Notte a Napoli, pour myself a glass of my favorite “cab of the moment,” and start chopping. Something. Anything. Today it’s the herbs gone wild in my garden’s last push of the season that I’m using to liven up an Herbes de Provence goat cheese spread that is irresistible.

My chopping tool of choice today is a beautiful, perfectly sharpened, Wüsthof chef’s knife. The prized possession of my 10-year old son. Perhaps the sole reason, he skipped out the door without a single complaint the entire week of his summer cooking camp. He knew that for a week’s worth of work, he would come home with the King of Cooking Tools. The tool to trump all others. The tool for which, using his Birthday money, he purchased a locking case and into which he carefully and ever so deliberately placed his prize and had to really think about whether it would be okay for me to borrow it from time to time.

On the other hand, another possible explanation for why he didn’t complain is he’s always known that when he turned the correct age, he too would begin to go to cooking camp each summer, just like his sister before him and his baby brother behind him. Because, perhaps, furthering the cause of women is less about how I raise my daughter and more about how I raise my sons. Perhaps. Perhaps, not.

Do you think, dear friend, that if I can teach my sons to nourish themselves, to have an appreciation for the preparation of a meal, to gaze out at their yard and recognize it as the support-system from which they too can harvest herbs, tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, then, maybe, just maybe, they will treat their yard, the earth, the soil a little more tenderly? Maybe they will be a little more deliberate when deciding what to put in their mouths? Maybe, just maybe, they will know the feeling of satisfaction that comes from making and sharing a meal? Of nourishing themselves and their families?

I must admit that not much cooking has gone on since the completion of his camp but occasionally, like today, he will pass through the kitchen when he sees me chopping and say, “Hey, Mom. Do you want me to do that? I really like to chop.” And, once I pass the knife over, he’ll instruct me by saying, “Now, Mom, you’re really supposed to hold the knife like this. See? With this finger like this.” I’ll try not to smile and simply be grateful that a tiny, little seed has been planted. I can’t know if it will grow but I’m just glad it’s there. And, maybe the next time I see Susan B. Anthony’s face, I’ll realize that it’s not a look of disappointment but the very real fact, that nobody but nobody smiled in pictures back then. That’s it. Plain and simple.

Herbes de Provence Goat Cheese Spread

(Adapted from Herbed Goat-Cheese Toasts, Epicurious)

6 oz. mild goat cheese, room temp

¼ c chopped, mixed herbs – oregano, basil, rosemary & thyme – heavier on the first two, lighter on the second two

1 1/2 tbls minced chives OR minced shallot

½ tsp black pepper OR to taste

a pinch of salt

1/3 c well-chilled heavy cream OR for a tangier version, ¼ c plain, yogurt

Stir together first 5 ingredients. In a separate bowl, beat the cream with a whisk until it just holds soft peaks, then fold into cheese mixture. If using yogurt, add it once the first 5 ingredients have been mixed-together. Enjoy immediately or let the flavors mingle for a day. Delicious.

“What do I do with this?” you ask, my friend. I keep mine in a little glass container in the fridge that I can serve it from whenever the moment arises. At times, I’ll set it out with our favorite seeded flatbread crackers and sliced pears as an after-school snack. Or, the other night, I set it out with sliced bread as an accompaniment to pre-made spinach & cheese raviolis topped with Dave’s Gourmet Red Heirloom Pasta Sauce, which is currently at Costco and I can’t say enough good things about it. Or, use it as a spread on my aforementioned, Heirloom Tomato Sandwich.

Whatever you do, though, take it out of the fridge at least, 20-30 minutes before you serve it. The other day I plopped it down for some friends straight from the fridge and then had to painfully watch as they politely tried to stab at it and awkwardly tried to “spread” it on their crackers without breaking them. I heeded Julia Child’s advice and did not apologize for the mistake but I had to avert my eyes from the rather uncomfortable situation.

PS: My favorite “cab” of the moment is a cheapie. Black Mountain Vineyard (Fat Cat) Cabernet Sauvignon which you can find at Trader Joe’s for $6.99 a bottle. Definitely let it breathe before drinking. And, if you happen to stash one in the back of your attic, improperly stored for say, 9 years, can I tell you that upon finding it and drinking it you will be treated to a most exquisite glass of cabernet sauvignon. Try it and let me know if you agree.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009