Music is such an interesting human invention. Sometimes if I think long and hard about it, it becomes almost magical, a physical manifestation of raw emotion, tangible yet intangible at the same time. We are so easily moved by it – it seems more than just another incomplete mode of communication between one human brain island and another. It has the power to completely possess the emotions and derail the brain, often more effectively and efficiently than words can ever hope to achieve.
So the last few weeks, the greek yogurt section in the grocery store has been hit hard. Last week they were completely out of the brand I usually buy, so I picked up a container of Cabot yogurt. The next day, I packed it up, took it to work, and opened it around lunchtime….
And that is when the party in my mouth happened.
This past December we went home to Michigan, as we usually do, for the holidays. Lovey’s family especially makes the most amazingly delicious food, and his mom has always been an inspiration in her cooking and baking abilities. Tradition is big during the holidays, and there’s no shortage of the traditional sugar cookies, peanut butter fudge, snickerdoodles, peanut brittle, and of course all kinds of pie. But there’s also an air of adventure and novelty in the Weston household, and so there are new dishes to mix with the old, adding a layer of excitement to the heart-warming traditions in the same way a touch of cayenne and cinnamon can spice of hot chocolate.
So I finished Chuck Wendig’s Blackbirds last night and I wanted to share a few thoughts about it. I tore through that sucker like ice cream sharts through a lactose-intolerant’s burbling belly. Fortunately for me, it was much more pleasant than ice cream sharts. In fact, maybe more pleasant than ice cream, if you can believe it. So much more pleasant that I decided to get off my ass and write a blog post reviewing it.
So, two nights ago I had a serious hankering for chocolate chip something. Muffins, cookies, scones, I dunno. Zucchini chocolate chip muffins sounded divine, but I have a really bad history with food graters (read: I grate my fingers and/or fingernails off ever time because I am clumsy) and the zucchini at the store was inexplicably slimy. Not going to happen.
So I pinterested, as I am wont to do when I am hungry, and found a recipe for “Fruit Sweetened Gluten Free Cookie Recipes.” Looked interesting, I had the ingredients, so I tried it out. What I came up with was maybe not exactly what the blog author Lynn had in mind, so I’ve published my version of her very good recipe below. The recipe I made gave me nice thick cookies that were browned and crispy on the outside but soft and moist on the inside. I would recommend serving these within a few hours from the oven. I don’t know how they’ll keep – they got eaten too fast for me to provide helpful advice on that front. 🙂
Augusta Morganti had a keen nose and a distinguished taste for expensive drinks. With a statuesque height and curves for miles, lustrous ivory skin, straight coffee-colored hair the texture of silk strands, and eyes that glowed like a tiger’s she was easily the most beautiful woman any had ever laid eyes upon.
Like most other women in our small town, I envied her beauty. But unlike them there was no way in hell I wanted to be like her.
I knew what she really was.
It was one of those Saturdays in March where the temperature hovered just above freezing – warm enough to rain, cold enough to keep the two feet of snow on the ground from completely melting, thus turning the countryside into a mud slurpee. The wetness of rain permeated my threshold, seeped into my house, into my socks somehow. I decided that if my feet were going to be cold at least my belly wasn’t so I slogged through the ankle-deep slushpuddles to McGonegal’s Bar to find some Jack Daniels or trouble, whichever came first.
This post is not about tunafish, sorry Milo.
Milo, our black and white fat cat from
Washington Michigan, has an obsession with human food – yogurt, ice cream, potato chips, salami, chicken soup, pepperoni pizza, and especially [& not surprisingly] tuna fish.
We had a party once and I had to escort him upstairs and put him on bedroom arrest because he launched himself like a tree frog into the chip bag head first, and before I could retrieve him, had chips in his mouth. He is such a catdog. At least he sits before I feed him cheese.
Anyhow, last night Lovey and I were looking for a food adventure, the sort of thing you do when you have a free Friday night and a wanderlust that can’t be sated by any adventure within 30 minutes’ driving distance of this godforsaken Biscuitburgh where the local quotidian seems to idolize chain restaurants and
fats fast food above all. Thankfully, though I may be quotidian, I am not of local borne – thus requiring me to desire more culinary adventure than the exotic Olive Garden can provide.
I ended up pinteresting my way to a destination, a little pan-asian bistro opening to the warm streets of some upscale Pacific coast town with stone floors and those rice paper room dividers.