One of the ways I stayed sane living in a hotel this summer was to imagine us back in our renovated home. I kept a Pinterest board of all our design ideas because it kept me focused on the outcome, not the destruction! When the process became overwhelming, I would go pin something inspirational. Click, click, breathe, breathe.
Early in the process I found myself imagining cooking in our new kitchen. Um, yeah, you heard correctly. Me cooking. (no it’s not the 8th sign of the apocalypse, yes it’s a bit delusional) So I started a board of recipe ideas that looked both accessible to the uninitiated cook and appetizing. I labeled the board, “Domesticate Me.” And, well. . . the idea snowballed.
It’s not blackberry season yet, it’s not really raspberry season either. But when Safeway had a “buy one get one free” deal on raspberries, I tucked that nagging thought, “It’s kinda early for raspberries” into the far reaches of my mind with the unsorted laundry, and scooped up 2 pints of jewel toned beauty. I’m a sucker for beautiful things. And a deal.
But what to do with slightly not ripe, but really pretty raspberries?
After yesterday’s post, baking is probably a bit counter productive to the whole weight loss thing, eh?
Point of clarification: after reading all of your lovely, well meaning comments I realize that I might not have been as clear as I needed to be. I’m shattered that the dress doesn’t look good in photographs. And that I haven’t found just the right dress to blend into the woodwork at the upcoming weddings. I’m actually feeling pretty good about the weight loss. Yes, I’d like it to move faster, but I know what I’m up against. And progress is progress. However, I will cop to being utterly frustrated with this haircut. I hate it. It’s not an inner beauty or self esteem issue, it’s a “I shouldn’t have let her cut that top layer so short so that I have to torture the heck out of it in order to get it to lie flat” issue.
Why didn’t I just say that in first place? I don’t know. Sometimes, I’m as clear as mud.
Anyhow, here I am with 2 pints of pretty and they’re kinda too tart to just munch. I’ve decided that they need to be in a baked-good, diet schmiet. So, I’m making up the ultimate in coffee cakes, “Marionberry Sour Cream Coffee Cake” with a twist. Because it’s not blackberry season, yet. But, it’s always coffeecake season.
There were three loaves… but, um, we kinda ate one right out of the oven.
I’m not sure what got into me today. But I woke up with that over-acheiver mentality that sometimes possesses me in my sleep. I swear, it’s IZ whispering to me as I snore, “Sweetie, you should really bake something tomorrow.” I wake up, a list drafted in my sleep, and it always contains more than I can achieve in one day—and apparently an agenda item to “bake.”
And evidently, bake something just as over achieving as my delusional to-do list. What is it about Nissua recipes? Three loaves… everyone one of them? How many  Finnish babies do you think I have anyhow? (that’s a trick question, we’re Danes) Ok, so my teenage boy counts as two, but really, three loaves? What are we going to do with three loaves of Cardamom bread?
So I got productive today. Laundry and errands and even a Spiritual Direction meeting—all the while working the steps that is bread baking.
I have to tell you, I’m feeling pretty smug today. I have no business feeling smug, because only yesterday in my multi-tasking frenzy (it’s a trend this time of year) I over-looked a potentially embarrassing flaw in one of Mireio’s glasses. And then last Friday, on an equally “I can do it all” time warp of a day, I managed to bake under baked brownies—those darn things spent 45 minutes in the oven and still were slushy in the middle. So, really, I have no right being all “I can DO this!” But, I can’t really help myself. I baked bread, people. Three loaves of delightfully airy bread and I didn’t burn down the house. Or forget the laundry. Or mess anything up. I homeschooled the kid, flirted with the husband, signaled before turning, and managed to sit down for afternoon coffee and a slice of bread.
Of course, I totally forgot to put on mascara and the dog still isn’t bathed, but we won’t dwell on that.
As for three loaves of bread and what we’re going to do with them…. well, turns out, that’s not so much a problem. The first loaf is already gone, the second is iced for dessert, and the third? Can you say French Toast in the morning, baby? Yeah, IZ, I’m talking to you.
For all you bread baking enthusiasts: I started with this recipe: Finnish Nissua. But then I ran amok, altered the recipe, and well, you know the drill, click here for a recipe card:Â Cardamom Bread
Because apparently, he loves his mother’s Apple Pie.
Recently I overheard IZ on the phone with his mother, ” I love two kinds of apple pie. Wende’s, of course, Â and yours.” Â This is news to me! Because whenever I bake apple pie the boy lies through his teeth and says, “This is the best apple pie! I wouldn’t eat anything but your apple pie.”
Let’s get things straight here, my apple is nothing special. In fact, I won’t serve it to friends. I draw the limit at tormenting family. IZ just has fond memories because I baked apple pie for him for months when we were first married. I was attempting to perfect my pie crust skills, so I baked an apple pie each week. I’m not partial to apple pie, (that’s southern for “I abhor it!”) so I could safely bake it and not also eat it. He gained 20 lbs. Love, I tell you, it makes you fat and happy.
However, I had no clue he had a soft spot for his mother’s pie. He never said. Not that I would have listened, I don’t think. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would have told him, “Are you married to your mother? NO. Is your mother here baking you pie? No. You will eat MY pie because I baked it, buster.” Ok, I wouldn’t have said it, but I would have shot him a look that summed up my position. My house, my pie.
These days, I’m old, er, and wise, er, and it’s probably time to stop tormenting the man with my apple pie. I stepped up and got the recipe from my mother-in-law. But, being resistant (I’m southern) and stubborn (southern) and wiley (southern) I wasn’t about to give in easily. Which is why I opened up our coffee time this morning with my big move.
Me: “I have a proposition for you. I want to bribe you.”
IZ: “With what?”
Me: “With pie. If you’ll make me a pdf recipe template for Evidently, I’ll bake you pie. I’ll bake you your mother’s apple pie.”
IZ: “Sounds fair to me.”
So today, he made a template and now you can clicky, clicky for a printable recipe card! And me, I baked pie. Apple pie. His mother’s pie. And you didn’t hear it from me, but it’s pretty good pie.
Day Twenty-six: A simple meal. Sometimes you  just crave a bowl of pasta. And when that’s the case, I turn to IZ’s amazing (yet surprisingly simple!) tomato sauce! Recipe after the jump.
Ok, this is really  an old picture of me (and someone’s cute bum) drinking a whipping cream-less mocha. Why? I have no idea, the picture is old. But I put it up because I don’t have a real picture of the can of Peppermint Whipping Cream that’s been rocking my world for the past two weeks. I should have a picture, but, um, I used the whole can up without taking one picture. And now it’s in the trash. And, I love you, but I’m not digging in the trash for you. Not even to get a photo of the thing that’s been rocking my world for the past two weeks. You’ll just have to take my word for it: Peppermint Whipping Cream rocks my world. It would have rocked past me’s world too if I’d known about then.
Somebody should be paying me for the advertisement. But, they’re not.
