Gluten-Free is Bulls#@*!! And Other Self Righteous Soapboxing.

Have I got your attention?
Good.

Because as a Gluten Free-er, that's all I really wanted in the first place. Attention.

Or at least so it goes in the minds of the digestively gifted intolerance-intolerant folks out there.
As if the banging and clanging that goes on in my belly is after all.. just in my head.

It has been a long time since I posted to my "break an egg." blog. Ten months in fact. A lot of changes have been put into place on my plate since my last post titled, "Oh Hell No....!", in which I explored the fear that, in addition to my lactose intolerance, I may also have been experiencing symptoms of a blossoming gluten sensitivity. In the beginning, the idea of eliminating gluten was overwhelming. Like dairy, it seemed to be in everything. Unlike when I began my abstinence from dairy, where I went it alone and it took years of honing to get the hang of permanently living that way, this time I turned to the internet for immediate guidance. I found tons of information and not all of it clear. Recipes that eliminated one irritant inevitably, it seemed, included the other. Even in popular resources, like the blog of Shauna James Ahern, The Gluten Free Girl, which was extremely helpful in understanding gluten intolerance(her blog is a veritable gluten free jackpot), still many of her innovative recipes called for dairy. Straddling the two major dietary restrictions was not a graceful feat for me, at first. For a month, I ate only bags of gluten free pretzels and hunks of watermelon for every meal until I could find my bearings. It wasn't pretty. And it wasn't cheap. My b, as I often refer to him, intervened and provided me with complete meals from the one cafe that gracefully handled my tall order. I couldn't have afforded eating that way on my own. It added up fast. The truth of the matter is that I needed all of these last ten months to work this new lifestyle out. It is not one for the faint of heart or economically challenged. It was hard. It still is. Thanks to the generous efforts of my boyfriend, I was well taken care of but not everyone with gastronomical woes is so fortunate. So it's been of much interest to me that there has been a tornado of blogosphere backlash in the realm of gluten free eating as a cultural shift. Yay-sayers and Nay-sayers are clashing over the subject of gluten like internet titans....

The blog that inspired me to jump into the conversation after ten months of self imposed silence, was one that a friend posted on Facebook. Oh, Facebook. The opinion's playground.
The article was emblazoned with a title that made me stop in my thumb scrolling tracks, it was called "Gluten Free is Dumb and Gluten Intolerance May Not Exist".
Before I read the article I became aware of a tension already present in my body. I was already set in defense mode, which is by no means a helpful position to begin to process information--or opinions-- in, rationally. To counter, I took a big breath to help assist my mind into the open-position instead.
I clicked on the article titled, "Gluten Free is Dumb and Gluten Intolerance May Not Exist", by Casey Chan. The article opened to a photograph of pizza and chocolate chip cookies with the sentence, "Being Gluten Free is Stupid" pasted across the front.

My know-it-all ego smirked at the opening line,
"If you're Celiac then this doesn't apply to you"........

Ok, pause. Doesn't this get-out-of-jail-free opener completely contradict the flashy, attention-begging headline? If Chan acknowledges the inability of Celiac sufferers to tolerate gluten in the very first sentence below the "Gluten Free is Stupid" box, then gluten free as an option couldn't possibly, perhaps, be all that dumb..could it...?

I stopped for another big breath to clear away my inner smart-aleck.

Chan goes on to deliver a crushing "truth" to the masses he perceives to be inflicted with Münchausen Syndrome and not Gluten Sensitivity.
"If you don't have Celiac there is no reason to be gluten free", "you are wasting your time", "Even the scientist [Peter Gibson] who started this craze thinks it's useless".

Uh-Oh.... Chan dropped science on this.

"Seriously.", he writes, "People, the Father of Gluten Free thinks it's bullshit.".

Suddenly I was transported back 10 months ago when with each meal I ate, I was consumed by severe bloating and cramps that lasted for hours, gnawing fatigue, when my acne had acne, and when I felt suffocated by allergies. At the time, Veruca Salt had nothing on me. And, I remember the freedom I felt after giving up gluten. That when I ate, without including the stuff,  I felt light and could go on about my day without being crippled by cramps and having to nap. I realized that Chan, safely tucked away behind his keyboard, may be right and that transition I experienced may have been in fact, "Bullshit".

Well, so much for keeping my inner smart aleck at bay. I kept reading.

As the crux of his rant, Chan cites the second study of Peter Gibson, professor of gastroenterology at Monash University and the director of the GI Unit at The Alfred Hospital in Melbourne Australia, A.K.A. the original gluten whistleblower. In an effort to further investigate his original Non-Celiac Gluten Sensitivity findings in his 2011 study, he set up a second experiment in which 37 subjects with IBS were tested.
To take another pause, all of the subjects had Irritable Bowel Syndrome to begin with.
The study showed no specific reaction to gluten in the participants based on a series of three diets they were fed. In the simplest terms, one diet with gluten, one with low gluten combined with whey protein and one with only whey protein(the study's placebo diet). The IBS sufferers were also given reduced FODMAPS. The response to low FODMAPS foods was the only time that the subjects reported experiencing any relief. According to the study findings, they complained of intestinal distress as a result of eating the former diets. Gibson suggested the condition was largely psychological, changed his position on gluten and the result was a media frenzy that burned up the internet with headlines like, "Gluten Free is Bullshit".

As Chan proudly states in his article, "The problem wasn't with the gluten--it was with their brains".
My mouth hung open at the brazen decree. I didn't know where to begin.

I started by doing some research which included reading articles published by, The American Journal of Gastroenterology, PubMed.gov, and Real Clear Science. What I found gave me a few points to mull over.

The first, is that all of the folks tested, all 37 of the world's population, had IBS. Second, the study didn't include people who were just suffering from joint pain or depression, commonly linked to gluten sensitivity. The third consideration is that this study was funded by George Weston Foods. If you are not familiar with their products already, I'll summarize; breads and flours mostly.
Breads and flours....
Allow me to break it down, the second study was funded by a corporation whose main product list is almost entirely gluten based.
The study suggests, that beyond the subjects' brains, FODMAPS or Fermentable Oligosaccharides, Disaccharides, Monosaccharides and Polyols were perhaps the real culprit.
So, what does that mean in words that are pronounceable? The acronym refers to foods that are high in fructans. A fructan is a polymer of fructose molecules(fruit sugars).
For example, foods such as wheat, rye, barley, apples, honey, pears, lactose foods, onions and--a whole chart's worth--of commonly consumed foods. They are short chain carbohydrates that ferment in the digestive tracts of some and are not easily digestible.
They--foods high in FODMAPS-- have been known to cause, nausea, pain, bloating, diarrhea and constipation. Similar symptoms to a gluten sensitivity. Whether the problem is gluten, FODMAPS, dairy, yeast, sugar, dyes, aspartame, acid or corn, the unfortunate reality is that there is no clear road map for those of us ruled by our tract. There is no Eat This and Get That Result--One Size Fits All--Food Manual. For most of us it becomes a long muddy road down the process of elimination. The big ones are the easiest to start with. Eliminate dairy and then reintroduce it. See what happens. Eliminate gluten, reintroduce it and see what happens. Take out sugar, see how you feel. Repeat with FODMAPS. It takes time. It takes patience, it takes money and it takes tears. Gastronomical powerlessness is a special kind of purgatory. It triggers feelings of helplessness and panic--to name only two-- that you may never quite be able to find the piece of the puzzle that will quiet the war going on inside you.

But according to Casey Chan(and many others), my symptoms, all stem from my broken brain. Nothing more.

Intolerance.

It is a provocative word. And when used in association with foods it has the power to really get folks heated. The mere mention of the word is apt to cause a physical and emotional stir in some.
Like in Casey Chan.

The politics of what goes on a plate, for Chan, seems to have little to do with helping to create a constructive conversation about the new ways in which to eat that, we as a people, now have available to us so that we may be able to eat more efficiently and responsibly. To help inspire people who may be suffering with unpleasant and largely impolite symptoms, despite trying a gluten free lifestyle and getting little to no relief. To relay to them, that there may be something else causing similar symptoms, like FODMAPS, that may need their consideration. No, for Chan, it became an opportunity to serve up and dish out his hostility and resentments toward gluten free living, rather than display any measure of empathy or compassion.  Why should it matter to Casey Chan what other people eat. What's he so upset about? Why is his case brimming with aggression? What is it that he is after with a title like "Gluten Free is Dumb and Gluten Sensitivity May Not Exist"? Could it be as simple your attention? Because, after all, who is getting helped when  Casey Chan uses his social media platform to publicly shame people trying to live a gluten free or maybe more importantly, pain free lifestyle, by calling the movement "stupid"?

To the Chan's of the internet let me just say that I love food. All food. I mourn the days when dinner could be as simple as,"Let's go get a pizza!". How delicious those days, how uncomplicated. These days 85% of what I eat I make from scratch from whole foods. It's complicated, it takes a lot of time, research and dismal failures, and it can cost a chunk of change. Why would I elect to maintain a more expensive, inconvenient dairy free and gluten free diet if it wasn't on some level working for me?

What I've found over the course of the last ten months is that, I generally feel better, the closer to a plant based, dairy free, gluten free diet I consume. My skin is better, I can breathe, my weight is low and I have more energy.
In addition to experimenting with gluten free I've also been paying attention to sugar and processed foods.
I do have cheat days.
I am not perfect. But this new lifestyle that I am undertaking is about sustainability. If something is too strict I will inevitably rebel. So I make each decision, one at a time. And if I accidentally find myself face down in a pile of gluten-laden doughnuts, I try not to beat myself up. I attempt to treat myself with care and move on... to a better decision next time.
And it seems to be working.
For me at least.
No digestive system is exactly alike, they are kind of like snowflakes in that way. I can't tell you what will help you lose weight, clear up your skin, or solve your IBS. No one really can. It's a process. But I can help open up a conversation about food that may be able to help someone who is struggling. Someone who may be feeling overwhelmed by all of the contradictory information out there. A person that has no idea where to begin or what is worth spending their hard earned money on. A person who has experienced a doctor's shrugged shoulders or that gets intimidated by the eyeball rolling and heavy sighs of the Casey Chan's of the world. If that sounds like you, please know that you are welcome here. This is a place for all things food and community. You are welcome to follow along with me on this journey, to see what works for you and just leave the rest behind.

You are what you eat, so eat beautifully,
Maggie


Note: All of the photos included in this post are gluten free, dairy free and apart from the eggs, plant based. The Lasagne, with cashew cheese and gluten free noodles. The re-imagined Eggs Benedict are crave worthy. The Chocolate Doughnuts made with dairy free and gluten free chocolate are high in protein and omegas. The Mac and Cheese is heavy on flavor, vitamins and minerals but feels light and delicious.
All of these foods, that I made in my kitchen, with my two hands, defy gluten and dairy and are good for you. It's possible to eat your favorites like this without guilt.
And I've got the pictures and recipes to prove it!

Oh Hell No....!!

And so it began...

The Pimple-Apocalypse of 2013.

A gross introduction, I know, but I promise there is a point.

It wreaked it's ugly havoc right smack dab in the middle of my face, right smack dab in the middle of what was shaping up to be the best summer that I'd had in a long time. Vacations were planned, birthdays were on the horizon, and there was to be a slew of date nights and little surprises along the way.

No stranger to debacles of the dermatological sort, I've learned a few things in the course of the last several years. First, there is a big difference between a blemish here or there and a sudden, angry, pimple flash mob trampling my mug.

The former could be anything, fabric softener on the pillow case, make-up, sunblock, dirt, sun..
But the ladder is a barometer of what is happening on the inside. It is a red flag that something is amiss on a much larger scale. That my liver, perhaps, is "flooded" and unable to process ...something.
Since the human body is not rigged with whirly gadgets to alert us to a possible mechanical failure like the kind a car comes equipped with, one must learn to pay attention to other signals that indicate when we are *ahem--running low on fuel, our batteries need charging or that we are using the wrong motor oil, if you will.
For me, the idea of listening to my body began in the summer of 2005.
Another epic summer, I was living in Hawai'i and relying heavily on my body's optimum performance. I surfed everyday, I rode a bike, I swam, jumped off cliffs and often hiked in the rainforest with friends.  The problem I struggled with was the state of my skin.
It was the worst it had ever been. I ate well. I exercised everyday and despite my best efforts to be healthy...
I had acne.
The really bad kind.
The kind that no pill, dermatologist, face wash, esthetician--or her bag of tricks, could cure.
I was embarrassed all of the time. My situation seemed hopeless and I was even toying with the idea of Accutane. For a whole host of reasons, it was a drastic step that I did not want to take.
It was in this summer that, post surf, I was lounging on my roommate Courtney's glorious couch and watching MSMBC. I happened to catch a few simple words strung together, that slid across the screen then disappeared as fast as they had appeared, and changed my life forever.
The words read, "milk may be linked to acne".

If you know me personally, or if you've read any of the previous Break An Egg posts, then you likely know that I am lactose intolerant.
I didn't know that then. Then, my icebox was teeming with every variation of dairy product known to man. I was an --All Dairy, All Day-- kind of gal.
I reluctantly took a short sabbatical from the stuff and then with my fingers crossed tight, I stuck my face in a pint of Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream. Ok, it wasn't my face but rather a large spoon ... you get the idea.
It was then that I was able to recognize long ignored signals that my digestive system didn't appreciate Ben, Jerry or cow sourced milk products of any kind.
No more than five minutes into my strawberry swirled confection, my sinuses boycotted the invasion, they shutdown, my mouth tasted like pennies and a twisting, churning, cramping, intense pain took hold of my innards and refused to let go. And it would be several years, many tears and way too many stomach aches before I rid myself of dairy completely. And while it didn't completely cure my skin woes, it did dramatically improve my appearance.

Cut to this July, I was eating well, or so I thought, I'd curtailed my considerable drinking habit, I was going to hot yoga several times a week, drinking tons of water (THAT as it turned out--is what solved the dwindling dermatological debacle), and so it came as a shock that I was back where I'd started in 2005. This time, I reviewed the facts. I knew that my sinuses had been impaired, but I blamed the weather. I knew that I had little to no energy so I upped my exercise and drank more water. When that didn't work, I chalked it up to low natural energy. And even though I was in love, I never wanted to be touched, because with each meal I ate, I would experience immediate bloating and pain in my belly that would last for hours.
I was aware that I'd been baking up a storm all summer but,  I wasn't ...... I couldn't be.... I mean what a cruel twist of fate that I may also be......

But there they were, all of the same flags that took over in 2005.

Am I GLUTEN INTOLERANT!!!?!!?
*Insert obligatory temper tantrum here.

Once I got done shaking my fists, swearing at the universe and sweeping perfectly set tabletops onto the floor, I embarked on a gluten sabbatical.

This time, I had geographic location on my side. Many restaurants in L.A. are quickly becoming all manner of fad sensitive. I am walking distance to three health conscious grocery stores, and I had a partner in restraint or a "running buddy", my b, who was not only taking this trip with me but often showing up at my day job with bags of dairy and gluten free foods!
The first few days were tough, but I stuck to it and the first thing I got back was the ability to move more than five feet away from a box of tissues. Then, I realized that when I ate, I could go on about my day, pain free. And then I noticed that I not only had more energy but that I could focus too. Maybe I wasn't experiencing adult onset ADD after all. My clothes were getting looser, my tummy flatter and yes, eventually my skin started to heal too.
It was a bittersweet experiment.
I was happy to feel better but terrified of what it would mean to try to live, not only with out my favorite food group, dairy, but also without bread and cake and beer and soy sauce and biscuits and speculoos and croissants and pasta! Oh Sweet Baby Jesus! No pasta!?
How will I travel? How will I dine out? How will I eat at someone else's house without seeming pretentious? How can I do this and WHY, WHY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME!?!
But I know why. Because it takes someone whose whole life revolves around food, to find a creative and delicious way to eat without it. And that's what I will do.
Because honestly, I feel too good to go back.

And just incase you were wondering, these Lemon and Blueberry Pancakes, your mouth probably hasn't been watering at the sight of.. ARE dairy and gluten free.

And completely DELICIOUS!

Lemon and Blueberry Gluten and Dairy Free Pancakes

Dry Ingredients

• 1cup gluten free flour(this one was a blend of brown rice, potato and tapioca)
• 2tbsp cane sugar
• 1tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/2tsp sea salt

Wet Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cups coconut milk
• 1tbsp Earth Balance butter substitute(melted)
• 1tbsp coconut oil(melted, plus more for pan/griddle)
• 1 large egg
• zest of one lemon(or more depending on preference)
• 1 pint of blueberries

Whisk dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Set aside. 

Next, in a separate bowl, whisk together the "milk", "butter", "oil" and egg. Combine with dry ingredients and whisk until smooth. Add blueberries and zest, reserving some zest for garnish.

Here is where you'll have to make your own judgement call.. I used approximately 1/2 cup of batter per pancake. It was very "wet" so I made them in individually 5in. sized, nonstick pans. If you don't have pans that small or prefer a griddle then I recommend using ring molds to hold the pancake shape or experiment with the ratio of flour to "milk"(--which I will also be doing in the future).

Over medium heat, swirl coconut oil over pan. Pour approximately 1/2 cup of batter at a time and let rest until bubbles pop up in pancake 3-5 minutes. Flip and repeat. Stack and garnish with as much zest as you can stand. 

Voila! 

*scoop of Earth Balance and maple syrup and powdered sugar on top, optional

The Fig is Up.

It's summertime in Hollywood.

I know this on account of a few things.

Even though the change of seasons in Los Angeles is a subtle flux and on any given day in January it could be eighty five degrees and pool weather, in July you may find yourself running back in the house, last minute, to crab a cozy cable knit sweater to take to Pace for dinner, there are a few summertime rituals, that Los Angelenos engage in, that mark the season more accurately than the thermometer.
I can tell that it's summer because throngs of music lovers are hiking up the Highland hill towards the Hollywood Bowl, I can tell that it's summer because The Hollywood Forever Cemetery has turned into a giant tailgate party each Saturday.
... And I can tell, because my own summer ritual is back.
Piping hot coffee in one hand and a Hollywood crime novel in the other, first thing in the morning.

 For me, the summer is all about murder.
And macerated fruits over biscuits for breakfast.

Murder and biscuits.
Ahhhh, summertime.

It began a few years back, the summer I spent, decked out in a leopard print in a bikini in Laurel Canyon, devouring hollywood based crime books and tales of the city's, once bright, fallen stars.

A book called, The Killing of the Unicorn, was the first, Peter Bogdanovitch's, somewhat delusional, account of Dorothy Stratton's tragic story. It was so fascinating and so sad. A beautiful, charismatic playmate, savagely murdered and sodomized--postmortem(!)--by her ex-husband, who then, took his own life. Next it was a book called L.A Despair, by John Gilmore, a collection of short stories in which none of the players are safe from Hollywood's bitter darkside. One of the most haunting stories in L.A. Despair is the chapter on Barbara Payton, in which, she is her own undoing, a stunning starlet on the up and up that just couldn't get out of her own way. Tumultuous public affairs, severe alcoholism, career cut short, prostitution, and gratuitous physical abuse are the "highlights" on her reel.
Having always had a fascination with her, I read everything I could find about Sharon Tate's gruesome end. That first summer, I logged hours on websites like Find a Death and Crime Scene pouring over the photos. I went to El Coyote, slid in a big red banquet and downed margaritas while trying to imagine that this was the last place she ever had dinner.
I stared at photos of Jayne Mansfield's topless car and shoulders. I couldn't look away. No matter how much my eyes "watered", or how many nightmares I had as a result, I still searched Wonderland Avenue for the home of Four on the Floor and toasted the terror with it's namesake cocktail at The Hungry Cat. And on my birthday, I took a Dearly Departed tour of Hollywood.
I was a woman transfixed by the juxtaposition of malevolence and bewitching charm this city embodies in equal measure. There is an energy here that is oh so hard to define. Contradiction flirts with irony unmercifully. Success glides by as strife chokes on it's dust and no one rushes in to deliver the Heimlich.
I found myself seduced.
And terrified.
I was in love with the idea that a city with such a sweet, glamourous facade could conceal a core so rotten, though I suppose, "the sweet is never as sweet without the sour and [Los Angeles] knows the sour".
This city that I now call home, is a true yin and a yang of lightness and darkness. And for all of the sexy and sinister divides, I remain wholly and completely in love with this complicated city. And hypnotised by the books that shine their big spotlights in all of the dark little corners that secrets like to hide in.

Last summer, every morning that I had to myself, I tore apart tubed biscuits and I mashed summer fruits with salt and sugar, leaving them to spill across the buttery pillows.  I clutched a searing hot cup of coffee in my white-knuckled grip, on the right. The mug punished my palm as I clutched it for dear life. On the left, my bound companions, the books that is, dropped the non in the fiction. They morphed from true stories to fantastic, suspenseful page turners. The kind with tough talking detectives and double crossing glamour pusses. The ones that keep you up until too late because you just have to know, "WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?!".
Most mornings, I  woke up to Raymond Chandler. Come late August I was in bed with James M. Cain. Finally, my relationship with James Ellroy pushed me to the point of insomnia with his over the top violence in Blood on the Moon, in which, most of the victims were young women living in West Hollywood. A wee-bit too close to home for comfort, I closed the back cover of that tall tale and and closed the bloody season. I moved into fall with a Patti Smith cushion that delivered the promise of sweet, innocent love, over the threat of dismemberment.

But, its a brand new season.

I have brand new book and a brand new breakfast.
The book, Ellroy. American Tabloid.
The breakfast, The Hand Pie.
Still a marriage of flaky dough and syrupy fruits, but this summer, in the form of a folded pie so that I never have to put my book down in order to sink my teeth into my meal.

The Fig is Up.

The following is an account of A Hand Pie based on true events and a recipe by Bon Appetit.
by Maggie Stebar


It was a clear case of neglect.
My black mission figs, that I selected with care, and brought home from the market so lovingly on a sun speckled sunday morning, had passed. They were left for dead, in a cold refrigerated box. A veritable morgue, full, of other abandoned foods. For a week and a half. These figs were victims of bad timing.Wrong place, wrong time. Innocents that had been neglected for more convenient meals. The swinging diner, the chinese delivery, the sushi bar. Attention just hadn't come fast enough and now the figs lay shriveled on top of each other unceremoniously.

It was difficult for me to accept their sad fate. Once so supple, so beautiful, they now lay hardened and wrinkled.

Desperate for a happy ending, I paced. I went over what had happened in my mind. I needed to know my involvement in the figs' demise. It was an accident. I didn't mean for it to come to this. What could I do? Should I call someone for help? Who can I trust to tell me what to do? My mind raced. I looked nervously around my kitchen. I found myself staring at a half consumed bottle of wine from the night before. Then came the light bulb.
 I reasoned with myself that if Botrytis works in favor of making grapes into some of the most sought after wine in the world, that maybe there was hope for my figs. Maybe just maybe...
Could it be a form of noble rot they were experiencing and not succumbing to the plain, old, throw-it-in-the-trash variety?
I began my fig resuscitation with a baking soda bath. Next, I sorted. There were three figs of the three pints that were definitely DNR. I pulled off the stems, I gently pulled apart each fig. Some were dry, some were oozing syrup. I put their little fig bodies in a bowl and added honey, brown sugar, raw cane sugar, salt and lemon juice. Slowly I churned the fig mixture, looking for signs of life. The juices began to appear. They were still alive!! I hadn't senselessly murdered my figs after all, I'd macerated them!
So happy they were back to life, I freshened them up with the juice from another lemon and perfumed them with a cap full of vanilla extract.
As, they bubbled and gelled on the stove my guilt melted away. I had my happy ending. I welcomed my pardon. It was time to make breakfast.....

On The Record.....the recipe

Fig Jam:

• 3 pints black mission figs
• 1/4 cup orange blossom honey
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup raw cane sugar
• juice of one lemon
• 1/4 tsp. sea salt
• dash of vanilla extract

First, soak figs in water and rinse. Next, de-stem and tear apart in big rustic chunks for texture. Combine all ingredients in large bowl to macerate the figs. When they appear to be juicy, heat a dutch oven or sauce pan over medium to medium-high heat. Encourage the figs to boil then turn down the heat and let them simmer to desired jam consistency. Allow to cool.

Crust:
(adapted from Bon Appetit)

• 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp. raw cane sugar with extra for sprinkling
• 1/4 tsp. sea salt
• zest of one lemon
• 1/2 cup--1 stick chilled unsalted butter cut in cubes
• 1/4 ice water *with a squeeze of lemon (optional)
• 1 egg beaten

For dough, combine dry ingredients, then work the butter cubes in to the mixture until the texture of course meal. Slowly stir in ice water until dough comes together in clumps. Form into a square, wrap in plastic and chill until firm. About two hours.

When dough is sufficiently chilled, set aside.
Preheat the oven to 375*. Roll out dough on a flowered surface as close to 15x12-- I ended up with a misshapen flat piece of dough and it still worked--cut six rectangles. Brush edges with water and spoon fig jam on each. Fold dough over and gingerly seal edges with a fork. Place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Brush each pie with egg wash and sprinkle with sugar. Slice small slits in the tops for steam. Bake for 35-40 minutes.
Enjoy when risk of a scorched palate is minimal. And make plenty, because,
The Fig is Up Hand Pie is so good, you'll kill for one more bite.

Eloise.

Today is my grandmother's birthday.
Or, it would've been.

She passed away last last November, her's making three, in a year of loss of for me. So distraught was I, that I couldn't do anything except make cookies in her honor. I couldn't even go home. I couldn't sit in that room in Paitsel Funeral Home surrounded by all of the "I'm so sorry for your loss" faces.
Again.

It was eleven months earlier that I said goodbye to her son, my father, in that room, surrounded by those same faces. December twenty seventh, was the worst day of my life.

July twenty seventh, I said goodbye to my longtime companion Olivia and now it is March twenty seventh and my grandmother, Eloise's birthday.

The truth is, that I carry around a fair amount of guilt that I did not go home when she passed, nor often enough while she was still alive in Virginia, in the sleepy little town of New Castle.
The truth, is that I worry that she didn't know how grateful I am for her role in my life.
The truth is, that I wouldn't be who I am today without her.

Perfect she wasn't. Evident it was, the day she relieved a chicken from the burden of having a head as a child. Or when she waved three fingers in the air after she claimed "two", was the correct number of cocktails she'd had. Or, from the other side of the door, as I, clad in a nightgown, eavesdropped on her arguements with my grandfather, when I should have been sleeping. I said goodbye to my grandfather in that room at Paitsel Funeral Home.

But, the Eloise I was the most familiar with, was the woman that loved her outspoken, green-eyed  grandaughter to pieces. She spoiled that child--me--and a lot of others, old or young, related or not, gratuitously. She was a vibrant host. Her laugh was downright infectious. She overfed anything within a six mile radius. All of my grandparent's animals had generous bellies and took plenty of naps.
At the local K&W, where the buffet line began with the desserts, I was permitted to pile my cafeteria tray high as I could handle. When I was unable to make a dent in my stack of foods, I never got in trouble, just a simple comment, "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach".
While her three grandchildren swam well beyond the pruning of their fingers, Eloise cut wedges of salted cantaloupe to hand feed her little "porpoises" from the side of the pool. When we hauled our sunburned shoulders out of the water for good, she wrapped us kids in warm towels that she kept tumbling in the dryer, before our skin had time to consider making goosebumps. "Us kids" included me, my brother Jim and Tyson, our youngest cousin. I said goodbye to Tyson in that room at Paitsel Funeral Home, shortly after he turned sixteen.

Eloise spent her afternoons tending her garden, shelling beans, making casseroles and vegetable plates.
She ate tomato sandwiches on Pepperidge Farm bread. She made the best toast.
Her secret was to toast the bread, butter the bread, and then, plunge the bread back into the toaster until the edges were brown and the center was bubbly. She knew just how to do it so that the fire department needn't be called. I have not been so fortunate in my attempts to recreate it.
After hard partying with Nick at Nite until the wee hours, I'd wake to the bacon and coffee clouds she sent wafting through the house. Through her cooking, my grandmother was able to make everything feel warm and safe. She created togetherness with her cast iron.
Her meals made the house come alive.
Though Eloise didn't drink coffee after noon, she always kept a fresh pot hot for anyone that might drop in to say hello and also to make the red eye gravy that she dunked her country ham biscuits in, that they could help themselves to.
A few years ago, I'd asked my grandmother to share with me some of her recipes. She never did, because she didn't really have many. She mostly just improvised. I would have been asking her to articulate something she did just by feel.
I guess I take after her in that way. And so, to honor her memory on her birthday I tried my hand at the small sandwiches that had a perpetual place on Eloise's kitchen counter.

Country Ham Biscuits with Red Eye Gravy.

Happy Birthday Grandma.

My Attempt:

Biscuits

• 2 cups of sifted all purpose flour
• 1 tbsp baking powder
• 1 tbsp raw cane sugar
• 1 tsp salt 
• dash of cayenne pepper
• 1/3 cup shortening
• 1 cup almond milk 

Whisk dry ingredients together. Then cut shortening into the flower until it is evenly distributed and the mixture looks like a course meal. Slowly add the almond milk until the dough clings to itself. Lightly knead once or twice into a ball and let rest for at least one hour covered.
Preheat oven to 425*.
With a flowered surface and rolling pin, roll the dough to one inch thick. Cut circles with a cookie cutter or in this case jelly jar. Place rounds on a greased baking sheet.
Bake for 10-15 minutes or until edges turn brown.

Country Ham and Red Eye Gravy
- you can use Virginia ham, smoked ham slices or cured ham. In this recipe I used smoked slices from Rocky Canyon Farms at The Santa Monica Farmer's Market.

• 1/2 lb smoked ham slices
• 2 tbsp apple cider vinegar
• 1 tbsp bacon grease
• 3 tbsp coffee
• s&p 

Brown ham over low heat. Remove from pan. Set aside. Deglaze pan with bacon grease, apple cider vinegar, coffee and s&p to taste. Give the ingredients a light whisk and simmer lightly until the gravy resembles a "red eye" or a red circle in the middle and a clear outer circle from the oils.
Dunk biscuits in gravy and assemble.
Enjoy.






*Disclaimer:
-this recipe only represents my attempt at Red Eye Gravy.  

Kumquat Compote: Three Times Fast.

..seriously.
Try even saying it one time slow.
Kumquat compote.
It's definitely not easy.

But, there I go again, getting distracted.

Notes to self:

Pay attention, don't get distracted. Can't afford to let another year go by. Have to get some work done. This is the year to make things happen. You will eat well. You will exercise four times a week.
ok, more like three.. wait, it's friday already..haven't worked out once... rats... 
Work out first thing in morning.
You will pay bills on time like a grown up, You will make aprons, You will work the job that funds said apron business and bills. You will be an attentive girlfriend. You will call your mother. You will nurture friendships.
You will not be the girl with the perpetually chipped manicure.
Write one entry, every morning, in your creative writing journal. Wash the dishes. Take Leroy for a walk. Make sure to use those shitake mushrooms before they go bad.
oh, too late. 
Get sewing machine fixed. ROOTS! Get roots done--geez--what was it, five months since last hair appointment? Oh.. six? 
The gas bill.
again? 
The phone bill.
*sigh 
Cable... Didn't I JUST pay rent? 
Who's having a baby?! Did I send a gift yet? Oh no, I'm making it. right. Ok.
Crochet baby blanket while watching Real Housewives.
WAIT? ..who else is pregnant?! Ok.
Crochet TWO baby blankets while watching Real Housewives. What week is it again? Pick up sewing machine from the repair man. Finish apron ord.. Oh no, the sewing machine is still broken. Bring sewing machine back to repair man. Farmer's Market Day!
Hold on, I spent how much?!
Supplement at Trader Joe's.
Mom's birthday is next month.
b's birthday is the day after that.
Make business cards.
What's happening on Instagram? Wonder if anyone "likes" my Olive Oil Cake.
Must stop taking food photos at night. Lay off contrast feature. Make grocery list for adapting Olive Oil Cake into muffins.

AHH! I still haven't worked on my website.
Work on website. Don't be late for work. Take Leroy to dog park. Out of dog food. Don't forget to buy dog food.
Didn't I just get his nails clipped? 
Make appointment to get Leroy's nails clipped. Make sure to use kumquats before they spoil.
It's warm today! Go for bike ride. Oh right, get bike fixed. Don't waste beautiful day. Roller skate.
But, no time, can't roller skate, need to sew.
Work boots have holes in soles. Get boots fixed.
I'm hungry.
Oh, that muffin is pretty, I should take a picture. Oh no! Late for work.
Boots still have holes. MUST FIX BOOTS. Take apron pictures. What's happening on Facebook? Drink water. Clean Leroy's fur off carpet. Must remember to buy vacuum. Forgot to check mailbox. Check mailbox. Un-crumple mail crammed in box by mailman. Must check mailbox more often. Make dinner. Unplug flaming toaster oven. Must clean toaster oven. Take out recycling. Take out trash. Check iphone.

How many texts did I forget to answer!? 
Is Pandora playing Adele AGAIN?! 
Thumbs down.
What's Grumpy Cat doing on Facebook?
Deep condition hair. Water plants. Remember to buy toilet paper. Remember to not buy same brand as last time. Saving, comfort, not synonymous. Remember to turn off iron, oven, space heater, burners, before leaving for day.
Make muffins for quick mini-breakfasts for busy week ahead. Floss. Dust.
Dust again. Sweep. Feed Leroy. Smile. How does anyone have a kid? Make deposit at bank. Clean refrigerator. Write new blog post.

WHAT?!!

It's April next week?!

How is that even possible?

... and where did all of this laundry come from?

Take Time Out.

Olive Oil Muffins with Kumquat Compote

-adapted from the Rustic Italian Food recipe for Olive Oil Cake, by Marc Vetri

Quick, easy and worth slowing down for a minute.

I made these muffins in the middle of one of my busiest weeks yet, in twenty thirteen.
Too often, I get overwhelmed trying to do everything that I need to do and everything that I want to do. Little baby jesus forbid I get distracted by a shiny object. Suddenly, it's two weeks later and I arrive home to discover, I forgot to pay my cable bill.
I loved Marc Vetri's recipe for Olive Oil Cake so much, and because it was so simple,  I knew I could adapt the recipe into muffins to grab-and-go, for breakfast, for the rest of the week. So, in between the night at the Magic Castle, the farmer's market, b's spontaneous day off and Kirby Kirb's first sketch comedy show,  I could pencil these little muffin mounds in. So I did... and man was it worth it.
Dairy-free..

Olive Oil Muffins with Kumquat Compote.

Three Times Fast. Like the last three months..

Olive Oil Muffins.

• 2 cups all purpose flour
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• pinch fine sea salt
• 3 eggs
• 1 cup cane sugar
• 1 cup turbinado sugar
• 1/4 cup orange blossom honey
• 1 1/2 cups olive oil
• 1 1/2 cups coconut creamer
• juice of 1 1/2 Cara Cara orange
• grated zest of 3 Cara Cara oranges

Kumquat Compote.

• 1 cup Kumquats cut into rounds and seeded
• 2 Tbsp orange blossom honey
• 2 Tbsp water
• pinch fine sea salt

Preheat oven to 350*F. Coat a muffin pan--or two--with shortening.
Whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a medium bowl. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs, sugar and honey until blended. Whisk in the oil, coconut creamer, Cara Cara juice and  zest. Add the dry ingredients until blended.
Pour the batter into greased muffin pan(s). Bake on middle rack until toothpick comes out clean. Thirty minutes or so.
Meanwhile, put kumquats in preheated saucepan over low heat with honey, water and pinch of sea salt. Simmer on low until kumquats are tender.
Remove muffins from oven, they will be very moist. Cool for ten minutes.
If so desired, dust muffins with confectioners sugar and drizzle with orange blossom honey.
Top with warm kumquat compote.

Thank me and Marc Vetri later.

three little birds.

She crept in slowly, so slowly that I almost didn't see her. She was wearing a face that I recognized immediately.

There was nothing friendly about The Face. No warmth coming from the expression she had on, at all. Not even a trace of the polite smile you might fashion out of pursed lips when meeting someone for the first time. Lucky for me, this was a farmer's market in Santa Monica and not the Serengeti, for I fear, I would not have been long in her claws.

This was the second time that I'd run into him in the year and some odd months since our breakup over a burger that I never ate. It was a rough one, suffice it to say, leaving me with mountains of unresolved feelings and a ton of hurt.

The first time he and I ran into each other unexpectedly was pre-caffienne at my favorite dispensary of the coffee kind. That morning, I rolled out of bed and right into the sundress I'd left on the floor the night before. There was no nothing, no mascara, no bra, no pre-coffee session with a hair brush and no idea what I was in for when he swooped in the door. All at once, my body burst into flames, a burn so intense that all that remained afterward, was a pile of shivers in place of a person. In a hasty effort to flee, I "escaped" right into the wall.

The shiny lining on that near disaster was that we ended up having a conversation that freed me from my hard feelings. Peace replaced hurt. He and I have even had a couple of cups of coffee on purpose since then, and these days, I don't shake like a leaf. I can even form whole sentences.

So it was, with a healthy measure of confidence and clean clothes, that I approached him, standing alone, by the dried fruits and nut stand. We said hello, hugged and acted like two people that were truly happy to catch up.

And then there was The Face.

The thing about The Face is this... it was the exact same expression that took permanent residence above my shoulders when he and I were together. By the end, the unhappiness was something I couldn't cover up sans paper bag, mixed company or no.
In the very beginning, there were plenty of smiles but, short lived were they, as I began to realize something wasn't right.
I couldn't get comfortable.

I squirmed. I obsessed. I writhed. I drank extra alcohol.

Nothing I did helped. My insides were twisted up in torture. I felt sick all of the time. I was cramming myself into a relationship that was the wrong fit. Wrong guy? Perhaps. Bad timing? Likely. But, despite my analysis of the relationship's Achille's heel, it was when I started getting jealous, really jealous, that I knew it was doomed. Jealousy, for me, is a no fail indicator of an impending expiration date. I can't live like that for long and I don't turn green in healthy relationships for no reason. At first, I was jealous of the ex wife, next the pretty coworker, but then it took a hard right and turned it's ugly attention to imaginary people that I had never even met, ones I invented in daydreams. I imagined streams of twenty-something hipster girls in tight little sweaters and come hither eyes carrying him away from me. One night, we went to see a movie together in Los Feliz in a tiny, romantic theater. When I realized I was sitting in my seat and jealous of the actress on the screen, I was horrified.  
Holy Hell! Who had I become?!
And, it was at that time, that, if I met someone for the first time by his side, I could hardly manage to unfurl my brow.
I'd let myself decay in the relationship to the point that I had become a shell of a girl  ...a shell with a big frown on the front.

After he called "Uncle", I made putting myself back together in a more recognizable form, my job. I did yoga, I drank water instead of alcohol and I asked the universe for peace in my mind and in my heart.
I moved on.

Standing by the dried fruits and nut stand, I took her hand--the girl with the scowl-- and I shook it firm. I smiled at her, I smiled at him, I said my goodbyes and walked away.

It was a few minutes later that it occurred to me that I was still smiling. I wasn't the girl with the tangled up eyebrows anymore. I was the girl smiling at nothing at all. Every little thing had turned out all right. I don't know why the girl wore a look like that on that March morning. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Whatever the reason, I dug through my market bag, past the radishes, under the leeks and found my phone. I called my b. I just wanted to tell him how happy I am to have him in my life.


I left the Santa Monica Farmer's Market after a visit to the Schaner Farm's tent. I bought three different kinds of eggs there, turkey eggs, duck eggs and green chicken eggs. I took my collection home and made myself a late breakfast.

The O.G.

With the week winding towards the safe haven of it's end, I find myself day dreaming about Weekend Breakfast. A slow and deliberate, leisurely meal.
Unless you're an early bird, you will likely find yourself standing in line at your favorite brunch spot, because like you, the whole of L.A. is ready to fill their bellies with fluffy eggs, even fluffier pancakes, french toast, pan crisped potatoes, fresh squeezed orange juice and maybe even a nice big mimosa.
The perks of risking the line up and a possible pre-caffeinne argument about which Hollywood vein is the path of least resistance to the cup of coffee that awaits you, or, worse still, trying to figure out where to put your car when you get there, is that you don't have to stand over a hot oven or do the dishes. But, if you're in the mood to stay home and have a partner willing to help with the mess, making lazy Sunday breakfast at home is just as satisfying. And you can "camp" at your table as long as you want.

"Simplicity is the hallmark of genius", a friend used to say to me. She was right and the sentiment applies to my first 'break an egg' meal. The O. G..

Sunny Side Up Eggs, Bacon, Toast, and Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice.

There are no fancy components here. The O.G. breakfast is simple in it's preparation, what makes it stand out is using good quality ingredients. For this breakfast I wanted the meat, eggs and oranges to be straight off the farm and the bread still warm from the bakery. For this I went to the grandaddy of farmer's markets in Los Angeles. The Santa Monica Farmer's Market, on Arizona, takes place Wednesday mornings rain or shine.
You can find a farmer's market seven days a week in L.A. but, this market morning is pretty special and should not be missed. It's sprawl takes up blocks and the aisles are wide enough for straw baskets brimming with vegetables, baby strollers and market carts with room to spare. So on this Wednesday, my b and I made the early morning trek from West Hollywood to Santa Monica for the last February installment. Glorious, would be an injustice to this particular Wednesday. It was clear and bright, with a warm sun and a damp ocean breeze. My b and I linked arms and took our time, letting our gaze fall where it may. Mine landed on the Rocky Farms stand and their oversized signs delaring, "PORK", "EGGS"and "BEEF", taped to the neat row of coolers.
I collected eggs and bacon from the  Rocky Farms stand, then, a small loaf of sourdough from Bezian's Bakery, Cara Cara oranges next and a small bunch of mismatched ranunculus, wrapped in brown paper.

We lingered in Santa Monica, reluctant to abandon the the sea air and sun, but the fragile brown eggs needed to make their way to the ice box, lest they spoil in the unseasonably warm temperatures of this February morning, and so we headed back to West Hollywood.

Too impatient to wait for Sunday, I made a pre-weekend Weekend Breakfast this morning.
Friday is close enough right?
I started with the Cara Cara orange juice so that it would have time to chill in the refrigerator while I prepared the eggs and bacon. Cara Cara oranges have a pink flesh and a mild sweet flavor. They are less acidic than the average bear.
I am lucky enough to own a juicer but they can be a pain to clean, so, I quartered the oranges and squeezed them with my hand held press. It takes more elbow grease but the cleanup is almost as easy as a rinse.
Once all the juice had been harvested from my Cara Cara bounty, I transferred it to a pitcher and then to the refrigerator.

I preheated my cast iron pan on a very low heat, swirled and salted bacon grease in the pan and cracked the eggs into it. "Low and slow", is the motto for a sunny side up egg. It takes patience but that's about it. If your heat is too high then the white part bubbles and you lose the creaminess of the yolk.

After my oven reached 350* F, I put an enamel covered cast iron pan full of bacon in. When I could see the fat start to render off the bacon I turned up the oven to 400* to get it crisp. When they were nice and brown, I removed the pan from the oven and laid the bacon slices on a paper grocery bag to drain, then I trapped the still sizzling bacon grease in a tin can that I keep by the stove.
I'm lactose intolerant so, often times in place of butter, I use bacon grease for cooking--especially when I make eggs--because while nothing can truly touch a fried egg in real butter, bacon grease is a worthy substitution. After saving all of the possible grease, I put the bacon back in the enamel pan. Enamel covered cast iron holds even heat well and it keeps the bacon from getting cold. I gave the sourdough slices a quick toast in the toaster oven and made sure that the whites of my sunny side ups are set.

The rest is up to you.

Pile everything on a plate or just grab some forks and eat, that way you have fewer dishes to deal with and more time to relax. After all, you've earned it.
Happy Weekend!