Happiness is...

...a pocketful of almonds.

On the Brain

Browsing my iPhone photos the other day, I detected a theme.

Mmm, authentic enchiladas.
Sure was nice having the Delgado family in town.

The only thing better than a café miel at Quills...

...is a café miel at Quills with Kristen.
(She's looking a tad grainy here -- no fault of her own.)



After living in My Own Place for six months, I finally bought a kitchen table and decided the inaugural meal warranted commemorating. In case you're wondering, that's a mug of homemade baked beans, and the jar of milk is the closest to farm fresh I can get.

This meal made me think of Gramma, for no other reason than that I sprinkled my eggs with herbes de provence gleaned from her kitchen cabinet after she passed away last summer. It occurred to me as I enjoyed my little supper that Gramma would have been an avid Craigslister had she known how to use a computer, and she would have been proud of me for talking the previous owner of my "new" table into selling it for $40 instead of $50.



Java doesn't brew my favorite coffee in town, but they do serve it in my favorite misshapen turquoise mug.



This is peanut butter and jelly. Literally.
It made for a good midnight supper after a long day of work.

Rainy Sunday afternoons are for coffee, cookies, and parables.

And also red shoes.



"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
- T.S. Eliot

Hangin' Out in the Kitchen

Success of the Day: Homemade Yogurt

Last Night's Dinner

Would you believe I had completely forgotten that I know how to make chapati?

Seven years ago, a one-legged Fijian man with tatoos, an eye patch, and a gap-toothed grin taught me how to make Indian flatbread in a community kitchen in rural Kenya. (He later gave me a pink and purple bracelet and many a mournful gaze, so my rolling pin skills must have made an impression.) Chapati is simple and delicious but I haven't thought to make it in years.

Last night I had Kristen over so we could connect over bowls of leftover lentil barley soup. Whole-grain chapati was just the thing - the wheat and flax making it good and nutty, the oat flour keeping it soft, the coconut oil and honey complementing the spice-and-vinegar of the lentils. I'm glad I remembered that I have that skill. Pretty sure I still have the bracelet, too.

Cultural Whiplash

This time it's a latrine that reminds me why I love my life.

Not that I've been in desperate need of reminding. These past few weeks - as I've hung out with kids and watched them get excited about God and His purposes, as I've coached my students in leadership, as I've lived and laughed with my beloved Mexican friends, as I've swam in sea and cenote, as I've sweated and swatted mosquitoes, as I've collapsed late at night in my low-swinging hamaca, as I've relished yummy Yucatecan delicacies like panuchos or machacados - I've rediscovered the smile I'd lost this spring in the chaos of preparation and the burden of a grace-resisting heart. But my grin grows wider as I pick my way through the jungle of a backyard behind my new Mayan mama's cocina.

A fire pit here, a tricycle-cart there, a thatched building providing extra cooking space, a covey of women in their white embroidered dresses gossiping in Mayan while watching the pot of beans, and finally a rickety structure in the back corner, bamboo poles and tree branches held together by scraps of what-have-you, dried palm leaves for a roof, and a tattered curtain reminiscent of the sackcloth that Old Testament characters are so fond of donning. I try not to think about where this remnant of drapery has been as I pull it aside to enter. Inside is a rotting wooden floor keeping a makeshift seat suspended over what must be an old well. The smell and the flies make its new use all too clear.

Kenyans call this kind of toilet a "long drop," I recall as I precariously take care of business. No doubt if I fell through the gaping hole I'd wish the drop were longer - anything to delay the inevitable unsavory plunge. "That," I tell my morbid imagination, "would be a terrible way to die." There's certainly no cause to linger in a place like this - and yet, as I make my way back to the raucous cocina where our family dinner awaits, the only thought I have is how much I love my life.

My days in the tiny village of Teabo (which sounds to me like an expression of affection from a Spanish speaker with a cold) fly by in a blur of greenery and afternoon showers and two-tiered translation - and before long I'm saying good-bye to new friends - friends whose first language is not Spanish but Mayan, friends who are just barely scraping out a living and yet send me off with gifts, friends who hardly know me but cry to see me go.

The four-hour van ride to the Cancun airport is not long enough to transition smoothly. I find myself in line with the guy who is paying to check a fifth suitcase, the woman who is already drunk, her companion who loudly belittles her. I buy a half pint of milk for three times the standard price of a liter and await my flight in a terminal with a Bubba Gump Shrimp and a Margaritaville, surrounded by tourists who've experienced a Mexico as authentic as Taco Bell. They sport tans they've worked hard for, lying on sand imported from fishing villages elsewhere in the peninsula - I watched the 'dozers tear up the coastline just days before. They've stayed in resorts that are driving up the cost of living for the people who grew up here, resorts kept running by people who've left farm and family to seek their fortune in tourism. The women wear ridiculous hats and sundresses just like ones I've seen in souvenir shops in Thailand and Turkey and India and Florida, dresses most likely imported from Indonesia.

I drink every last drop of my thirty-peso milk and remind myself how selfish I've been and how much mercy I've been extended. I, too, have sought my own comfort and pleasure, carelessly disregarding the affect of my actions on others. It was my self-centered living, after all, that crucified Christ. Still, I wish I were back in Teabo (or "Te Quiero Buchisibo," as I like to call it), swinging in my hammock in my spider-infested house, rushing to fill the tank when there's running water, trekking across the backyard to the latrine.

Factoids

Paranoias

• That I have forgotten to lock the door at a public restroom and someone will walk in on me. (I always double check. I've only forgotten once.)
  
• That I have something unsightly between my teeth. (Not entirely unfounded - I eat a lot of broccoli and raw almonds.)
• As a child, that my fingers would get stuck in the drain at the bottom of the pool and I would drown. (Hasn't happened.)
  
• As a slightly older child, that I would be attending a wedding and when the preacher said that if anyone saw any reason why these two should not become one they should speak now or forever hold their peace, I would accidentally blurt out, "I object!" (Hasn't happened...yet.)
  

Wish List

• Vintage cowboy boots - brown
• A spice rack
• A pair of kitchen shears

If I had all the time in the world and most of the money...

• I would spend half of it baking delicious things that are good for you but don't taste like it.
• I would spend half of it traveling the world, visiting old friends and making new ones.
• I would spend half of it renovating an old farmhouse.
  
• I would spend half of it planting a garden, canning produce and drying herbs.
• I would spend half of it learning how to dance.
• I would spend half of it reading those books that have been on my list for years.
  
• I would spend most of it doing what I do now, while wearing my vintage cowboy boots in the kitchen of my renovated farmhouse, baking delicious things from my garden, and dancing.
  

I've recently discovered...

• That my eyes turn turquoise when I cry.
• That bourbon truffles are to die for.
• That I might be addicted to caffeine.
• That brushing my teeth with baking soda is not as bad as I expected.
  
• That new friends and old friends, far-away friends and right-here friends, are worth the risk and the effort.

Bittersweet Mayan Chocolate Cake

I bragged the other night that I was going to make "the cake to end all cakes." That may be a stretch, but it was pretty dang good. So, without further ado:

Bittersweet Mayan Chocolate Cake

First, I made a Flourless Chocolate Cake adapted from this epicurious recipe:

• 5 ounces bittersweet chocolate
• 1 ounce unsweetened chocolate
• 1 1/2 sticks butter
• 1 cup sugar
• 5 eggs
• 3/4 cup cocoa
• vanilla
  

Chocolate and butter were melted in a jimmy-rigged double boiler (during which I added a splash of vanilla). I removed the top pot from the heat and whisked in the sugar, then the eggs. The cocoa was "sifted" (I also don't have a sifter, so I filled my tea strainer with cocoa and sprinkled it by gently tapping the side) over the surface, then whisked in until just combined. Baked in a 9-inch cake pan (buttered, then wax-papered, then buttered again) at 375° for 25 minutes (until a crust formed).

This dense chocolatey goodness was inverted onto a plate and topped with...

Spiced Ganache:

• 3 ounces bittersweet chocolate
• 3 ounces unsweetened chocolate
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 2 tablespoons heavy cream
• 'nother splash of vanilla
  
• sugar
• cayenne pepper
• cinnamon

I melted the chocolate and butter, vanilla and cream all together, added a sprinkling of sugar because it was supposed to be bittersweet but was leaning a little too heavily toward the front end of that adjective, and stirred in cayenne pepper and cinnamon "to taste". (I guess I ought to measure if I'm going to post recipes, huh?)

The ganache was spread over the cake, then sprinkled with some cocoa powder.

I served this with a mango raspberry sauce - just fruit, really. (I diced the mango and mushed a small portion of both fruits, then mixed 'em back up. This made it saucy, messy, and sweet, much like myself.) On top was fresh whipped cream.

We squeezed thirteen pieces out of this cake, so as not to leave anyone out, which is unluckier than any old number. It got some rave reviews, some hesitant ones, which is to be expected - spicy chocolate is not for everyone. My own review? I'm too modest to tell you.

Two Minutes to Resurrection Sunday

Two dozen eggs boiling on the stove, some for deviling, some for decorating. Nine ungodly pounds of ham already in the slow cooker, waiting for the fixin's (that's next), ready to be plugged in tomorrow morning to [slow] cook while I'm at my morning services (attending one, serving one, as they say). A loaf of bread rising in a warm oven. Strawberries ready to be washed and served with sour cream and brown sugar; peppermint tea waiting to be brewed, sweetened, and chilled; a tablecloth needing to be ironed. Tokens of hospitality, fitting for the day we celebrate the greatest hospitality ever offered to undeserving - often unwilling - guests.

I did my shopping last minute, as usual, and drove home a moment ago, anticipating tomorrow's celebration and all it represents. Since Thursday I've been mulling over the weightiness of the cross, with snippets of song the soundtrack for my meditation: "It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished...Oh, praise the One who paid my debt...Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

I was there, and I ought to tremble, and not just sometimes. Friday's story should be familiar to me, but never common.

On tonight's drive, Damien Rice happened to be the soundtrack, and his praise was certainly not directed to the One who paid his debt. But just at the moment that I noticed how big and full the moon is tonight, hanging low and silvery and tempting me to stop and admire instead of go home and cook...just at that moment came the words of praise: "Can't take my eyes off of you!" The words resonated and my heart sang along - and not to the moon!

Oh, Creator of beauty, Giver of life, I often take my eyes off of You. I want to be so captivated by who You are that I cannot look away. Did I say that I want to leave it all behind? Because I do - I want to forsake this body of death! I am the crowd calling for a criminal instead of clinging to You. I am the Pharisees, seeking their own glory instead of Yours. I am the disciples, falling asleep when You asked them to pray. I am Pilate, fearing man instead of trusting You. I have betrayed You and denied You; I have run away from the cost. But Your dying breath bought me life and the veil is torn in two. I am forgiven. It is finished. You paid it all. I am Yours.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer.
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Saturday Brunch

There's a delicious breath of freedom in the phrase "Saturday Brunch." First, it's Saturday - sleeping-in Saturday, lounging-around Saturday, do-nothing-unless-you-want-to Saturday - twenty-four hours of unscheduled bliss. And then it's brunch - like breakfast, my favorite meal of the day, only later and bigger and friendlier.

That said, here's what I made for Saturday Brunch:

Grain and Nut Whole Wheat Pancakes
As usual I kind of did my own thing - you'll notice some imprecise measurements.

• 1 1/2 cups old-fashioned oatmeal (ground up in my coffee grinder - only I left a handful of oats whole)
  
• 1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
• handful of chopped walnuts
• smaller handful of whole flax seed [Edit: have since learned that I should grind flax seed, as it won't digest otherwise. Don't ask me how I discovered this.]
  
• lots of cinnamon
• little bit of nutmeg
• 2 teaspoons baking soda (or thereabouts - the box was nearly empty so I just dumped some in)
  
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup plain yogurt
  
• 1 1/2 cup milk
• 1/4 cup honey (Tip: a touch of olive oil inside the measuring cup keeps you from wasting the honey remnants that stick to the cup. Although those were always fun to lick out anyway.)
  
• 2 eggs
• a few generous drops of vanilla
  

You know the drill - mix dry ingredients, mix wet ingredients, stir together just until blended (the biggest mistake people make with pancakes is over-stirring!) I always cook pancakes in real butter, and I spread these ones out a bit because they get too dense if they're too thick. They're also quite filling, so I make them a little bit smaller than usual.

Top this yummy, hearty deliciousness of a flapjack with real maple syrup, real organic whipped cream (sweetened with agave nectar and a touch of vanilla), and a sprinkling of cinnamon, and you'll forget there was ever such a thing as a five-day work week in your recent history.

Also on the table: strawberries and blueberries with more of that real whipped cream, a French press full of fresh-ground Sunergos Sumatra (I saved some heavy cream from a whipping to put it in my coffee, unsweetened), some Bolthouse C-Boost juice (mango, cherry, and apple...and apparently camu camu fruit and maitake mushroom? what?), and bacon (which I avoided, but it did make the house smell like a Southern mama lives here rather than a passel of single females with varying degrees of domesticity).

Top this off with a dollop of quality conversation with Hannah, for whom I am increasingly grateful, and Saturday Brunch becomes a true Sabbath of rest, remembering, and celebration. One might call it a Gospel Brunch and only be half joking.

This was plenty of food for me and Hannah to eat our fill and various housemates to roll out of bed and shuffle through the kitchen to fix their plates. (Although some did insist on defiling my healthful whole-grain pancakes with fake pancake syrup - and not just any pancake syrup, but generic, lite pancake syrup. Lite!)

And there are leftover blueberries and whipped cream, giving me something to look forward to - that and a Saturday afternoon that, according to the sunshine outside my kitchen window and the forecast on my homepage, seems promising.