Adapting

Goodness, it's been a long time and many inches of belly since I've written here.

A lot has happened in the last couple of months. But then again, not much at all. I was swallowed up by work, which I gleefully allowed to happen, because I love my job and will miss it in the months or years to come. So I submerged myself in my career while I still had the chance.

I've also been eating quite a bit, (eating, and yet not cooking) which has taken up a shocking amount of my time and brain power. I fantasize about Pho, which I order several times a week, along with more Mexican food than you can possibly imagine, interrupted every once in a while by stretches of shrimp tempura rolls. Work, eat, work, eat, work, eat. I even invented a new kind of brownie-like candy in a dream the other night, which I called "Flutties," and which I'm hoping someone will actually invent and send to me as soon as possible.

And yet, regretfully, very little has actually come out of my kitchen in the last two months.

Today I started my maternity leave, which is a little strange, a little quiet, and more than a little scary. I'm standing on a precipice of a great unknown, wearing XL sweats, clutching a cup of decaf coffee. I'm excited. I'm terrified. I'm enormous and uncomfortable and can't find my ankles, and am full of so much love I hardly know what to do.

These are certainly strange times.

I am sorry I've been away as long as I have. It was never my intention to take a break. But this was a place for me to talk about the things happening in our kitchen, and there's not much to say about take out and nightly bowls of cereal, so I decided to stay quiet instead of accidentally turning this into a pregnancy blog.

I'll admit I'm a little nervous about the months ahead of me - how and when I'll find my way back to the kitchen. Suddenly, cooking seems like a luxury, and I never want it to be that. I love the dailiness of the kitchen, the comfort of it, the rare combination of habit and adventure. But I'm trying my best not to worry about the future, to just see where this adventure takes me and keep myself open to all the new things that are coming my way. I know that when something really matters to you, there's always a way to make room for it in your life. So once I've learned how to feed and dress and care for an infant, I feel pretty confident I'll make my way back into the kitchen, one way or another.

And now, as I sit here, my arms barely able to reach the keys from around my belly, it feels good just to talk to you again. So, thank you for being patient.

And because you've been so patient, I have a gift for you.

Something easy, something slow, something to nibble on during a quiet morning over tea or coffee, savoring each solitary moment.

Something called Cranberry and Pistachio Biscotti.



I made these with my mom a while ago, and just never got around to writing it up for you. Selfish of me, really, because these were so easy and so satisfying, they must be shared.

I adapted them from a recipe in Bon Appetit, which called for white chocolate, which I did not have on hand and did not have the energy to procure, so I used dark chocolate instead. Feel free to adapt it to your own pantry. You can use almonds if you don't have pistachios, can swap out the cranberries for dried cherries, and you can skip the chocolate dipping entirely (although, I would never recommend such a thing).

These are easy to adapt, easy to make, and easy to enjoy with your feet up.

And as for the "feet up" part. I am dreadful at that. The truth is, I ate these biscotti at my desk, at work, while I happily did 1,001 other things.




As I waddle around this city, strangers give me unabashed looks of disapproval and order me to go home and put my feet up. I'm not very good at that, but I'm working on it. Perhaps a few of these biscotti will lure me into a (temporary) life of leisure.

Or, I could get up and launder all those adorable booties for the adorable feet that kick my ribs in a not-so-adorable way every night. And organize onesies by size. And stack diapers next to the changing table.

It's not easy to adapt. But I'm doing my best. Maybe tomorrow, I'll try putting my feet up. Or maybe I'll find something tempting me in the kitchen, and will find myself at the stove. Which is a pretty good place to be, if you're going to be on your feet.


Cranberry Pistachio Biscotti
Adapted from Bon Appetit

2 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1 tablespoon grated lemon peel
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 teaspoon whole aniseed
1 cup dried sweetened cranberries or dried cherries
3/4 cup shelled natural unsalted pistachios or roasted unsalted almonds
6 ounces imported white chocolate or dark chocolate, chopped

Preheat oven to 325°F. Line 3 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Sift first 3 ingredients into medium bowl. Using electric mixer, beat butter and sugar in large bowl to blend well. Beat in eggs 1 at a time. Mix in lemon peel, vanilla, and aniseed. Beat in flour mixture just until blended. Stir in cranberries and pistachios (dough will be sticky). Turn dough out onto lightly floured surface. Gather dough together; divide in half. Roll each half into 15-inch-long log (about 1 1/4 inches wide). Carefully transfer logs to 1 prepared baking sheet, spacing 3 inches apart.

Bake logs until almost firm to touch but still pale, about 28 minutes. Cool logs on baking sheet 10 minutes. Maintain oven temperature.

Carefully transfer logs still on parchment to cutting board. Using serrated knife and gentle sawing motion, cut logs crosswise into generous 1/2-inch-thick slices. Place slices, 1 cut side down, on remaining 2 prepared sheets. Bake until firm and pale golden, about 9 minutes per side. Transfer cookies to racks and cool.

Line another baking sheet with waxed paper. Stir white chocolate in top of double boiler over barely simmering water just until smooth. Remove from over water. Dip 1 end of each cookie into melted chocolate, tilting pan if necessary; shake off excess chocolate. Place cookies on prepared sheet. Chill until chocolate is firm, about 30 minutes. (Can be made 5 days ahead. Store airtight between sheets of waxed paper at room temperature.)

Here I am.

A month has passed since I last wrote here. And while I could blame it on the move, my job, the sixteen hours it took me and Paul to register at Babies "R" Us, it's much, much more than that.

My sweet silver lap top has been closed for over a month, because I was trying to feel it all, everything, all of this change and gratitude and love and fear and wonder and hope and excitement. And sometimes when you're really, really feelin' it, you don't want to interrupt it by opening the lap top. I don't want to miss this time; I don't want to look back and realize it passed by without me joining in. So for the last month, I have been busy burrowing into this precious time we have before the big After starts.

I left my camera in its case and just reveled in the act of pounding dough, dicing shallots, leaning over a steaming pot and breathing in my favorite smells. I ordered a lot of takeout, so that I could spend hours at night just staring at my belly, wondering who this person is, and will be.

Cocooning, you might call it. I've been cocooning.

(And also growing very, very large. I spent seven minutes last night trying to untie the knot that was keeping my sweatpants up. It took me seven minutes because I could not see the knot from under my enormous belly.)

But there's only so much time a gal can stay in her cocoon. And I'm terrified (TERRIFIED) that when the baby comes I won't know how to manage it all and will lose every friend I've ever had and will stop writing and will lose myself and turn into one of those women who never showers or gets out of her yoga pants and has nothing to say except things about her baby. (I'm hoping I'm inherently selfish enough that I won't be capable of losing so much of myself, but you never know.)

Catching up with you guys seems like a good way to keep that from happening.

So, here I am. Here we are.

And I made some really, really good banana bread to welcome us back.

This recipe is not a secret. In fact, it almost has a cult following in the food blogging/reading/writing world. It comes from Molly Wizenberg of Orangette, more specifically from her wonderful book, A Homemade Life. I will admit that I did not follow the recipe perfectly, because I was too busy watching my belly grow to go to the market for crystallized ginger, and I also used WAY more banana than any sane recipe would call for, but it was still a heavenly loaf. And I ate it all in about three sittings.



Now, just so you know who you are dealing with these days, I will tell you a secret: I cried over the color of the batter. This is not a joke. The yellow of the batter with the dark chocolate specs was so beautiful in the slanted sunlight of my kitchen, that I ACTUALLY CRIED, and then thought the sappiest thoughts about sharing the color of banana bread batter with a child someday and all of it was so nauseating and cheesy, I snapped myself out of it pretty quickly. This is all very embarrassing, and very true. (I also cried over an episode of The Biggest Loser. I cried, and then I watched it again when it repeated three hours later. THIS is what I've been doing the last month.)

There are hundreds of banana bread recipes out there, but this one is special. It calls for yogurt, which makes it moist and adds a touch of tang to the banana, and also calls for chocolate, which is never a bad thing. If you can, include the crystallized ginger in your own version of the banana bread, I'm sure it makes it even more delicious. But if you are too busy with your own version of cocooning, make do with what you have, but definitely make this bread.

This banana bread is so good, it brought me to tears, and brought me back here to you. That's some good banana bread.



And, yes, I took this picture at work. I can't even get my sweatpants off, people. Cut a pregnant lady some slack.

And thank you for being so patient, and leaving so many wonderful comments and email, gently nudging me back here. And thank you to Tea for making me sit down and write today. She reminded me how much I missed being here.


Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger
Molly Wizenberg

6 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/3 cup finely chopped crystallized ginger
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups mashed bananas (about 3 very ripe bananas -- I used 4)
1/4 cup well-stirred whole-milk plain yogurt (not low fat or nonfat)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Set a rack in the center of the oven, and preheat the oven to 350. Grease a standard-sized (about 9 by 5 inches) loaf pan with cooking spray or butter.

In a small bowl, microwave butter until just melted. Set aside to cool slightly.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add the chocolate chips and crystallized ginger and whisk well to combine. Set aside.

In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, melted butter, and vanilla and stir to mix well. Pour the banana mixture into the dry ingredients, and stir gently with a rubber spatula, scraping down the sides as needed, until just combined. Do not overmix. The batter will be thick and somewhat lumpy, but there should be no unincorporated flour. Scape the batter into the prepared pan, and smooth the top.

(Try not to cry at how beautiful the batter is.)

Bake until the loaf is a deep shade of golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 minutes to 1 hour. If the loaf seems to be browning too quickly, tent with aluminum foil.

Cool the loaf in the pan on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Then tip it out onto the rack and let it cool completely before slicing -- unless you are pregnant and can't help yourself.

Right in my own backyard.

We're moving this week. And boy am I sick of takeout. 

And I know soon enough the day will come when the boxes have been loaded and unloaded, packed and unpacked, everything will have found its new place in its new home, and I will finally be able to stand at my new stove and return to good food. But right now, that seems many takeout meals away. And that is a little upsetting to me. The frozen pizzas and jarred spaghetti sauces have turned me into a bit of a zombie.

Which is probably why I somehow missed the miracle happening right in my own (new) backyard.

When I first looked at the house we ended up renting, it was a rainy day. It was the 15th house I'd looked at in a week, and everything was starting to blur together. I remember looking at the backyard and thinking: Meh, it will do. At least there's a pool.

So this weekend, when we were loading in some of our items and the sun was shining in that California way, and I walked around the neglected beds and gazed up at the ancient trees, I was shocked, SHOCKED at all that I had missed.

Before I tell you what I found, I want to clarify that I am not rich, or privileged. I am simply a Californian, and we are a fortunate, spoiled bunch. The garden I have is shockingly typical for a 50's house in Southern California. And that, dear readers, is the miracle.

In my typical backyard, I found dozens of lilies waiting for spring.  I found roses, in every color and size, and so fragrant you need not bend toward it to smell its perfume.

I found Birds of Paradise, strong and regal and peacock-like. 

There is bougainvillea, daisies, and trees as high as the sky.

But that's not the miracle.

The miracle is that we have a TROPICAL FRUIT GARDEN in our very own backyard.

There is a pomegranate tree, banana trees, an avocado tree, a mango tree...

Several citrus trees, including grapefruit and lemon...

A long, lone grape vine...

And a cherimoya tree full of knobby infant fruit...

As my mom pointed out, it is like I unlocked my own Secret Garden, except that the garden happens to be full of tropical fruits. It needs some pruning and a lot of love, but I seem to have an abundance of that these days. So we're a good fit, this garden and I.

I will be planting an epic herb garden as soon as we're settled, and I can't wait to waddle out to my back yard and forage for treats. 

In the meantime, do me a favor. Cook something. Do it for me. There are few things as important to me, as romantic, as powerful as the soul-satisfying process of preparing food. I'll think about you, all snug in your kitchens, the aromas and flavors filling your home, as  I call in my takeout order tonight. And I will think of the garden, and know this will all be worth it.

Letter #2

You are alive.

You make sure I know this, turning, kicking, pushing and pulling to get my attention. Every time you move, I am reminded just how alive you are. That we are alive together for this precious period of time, and that at some point, you will be ready to take on the world, and then you will be your own stunning person.

I talk to you all the time now, like I am a little bit crazy. I apologize to you when I sneeze, hoping it didn't wake you from a perfect slumber. I try to purr to you at bedtime, since you always seem to be up and ready for fun right as I rest my head on the pillow. I try reasoning with you, bargaining, explaining to you that it is bedtime, and we are all going to sleep, the three of us in one bed. I sing "Goodnight My Someone," wishing that sweet dreams be yours, dear, if dreams there be.

I have given you a personality, which is surprisingly feisty. For some reason, I imagine your kicks are messages for me to slow down, take notice, like you are tapping from the inside to get my attention, stomping your feet so I take notice, and I find myself saying, "Alright, alright... you're right, I know. I'm sorry." I like that you are feisty, not afraid to speak up when it's important, even as tiny as you are.

I danced at a wedding the other night, to Michael Jackson. I danced like I wasn't six months pregnant, in four-inch heels, not stopping till I got enough. I bet that was as fun for you as it was for me.

You know all those times you hear me laughing? That's because of your dad. He makes me laugh, all the time, and he'll make you laugh soon, too.

Your dad loves you an awful lot. You're lucky you got him as a dad. He's ordered you about a thousand books already, all the best ones, and he stayed up late after work painting your new room. He talks about you all the time, making plans. Today he was making plans for a sandbox, imagining you out there with your buckets and rakes, inventing your own games and building sand cities. He even started recording classic cartoons, which he claims is "research" for your impending arrival, but I think he just wants an excuse to watch Pink Panther.

It occurred to me yesterday that you will be born in 2010. It's like you're a futuristic baby! It's totally cool. And no, we still don't have jetpacks.

I know. I know. I'm eating way too much Mexican food. I can't help it. I hope you like spicy food as much as I do.

We have four more months to go, you and I, before you decide you are ready to see this world for yourself. I'm having the best time with you. I mean it. I hope you're comfortable, and feel safe and protected and loved. I get these waves of chills still -- goosebumps of happiness. I'm certain you must feel that, too.

I hope you feel how happy we are.

You know how I know I love you? Because I've gained 30 pounds, I can't tie my shoes, my back hurts, I can't sleep, I can't eat sushi or drink wine and I haven't had a bite of brie cheese or a cup of real coffee in six months, and yet I am quite possibly the happiest person on the planet.

That must be love.

And just as I typed that, you kicked me. I guess you love me too.