Luscious, warm, a decadent note that makes a dessert sing in perfect harmony. I used to crave this in candy bars, a Twix, or perhaps a scoop of Bruster’s Chocolate Turtle ice cream.
The Great British Bake Off opened my eyes to Banoffee Pie and the simple luxury of making a caramel without instructions. The process is a beautiful as the finished product. A melting sugar and butter, finished with cream.
The Caramel Macchiato taught me what coffee can do beyond ice cream sundaes and candy confections. It can be comforting, a delight to grab between classes, or an awful first job.
But how does one enjoy something they can not eat? I’ve been stumped on how to recreate this treat since my dairy-free lifestyle began, until I picked up a pint of dairy-free Phish Food from Ben & Jerry’s. It had the marshmallow fluff (which I discovered I could eat again this past winter) and ribbons of soft caramel. Caramel that tasted like the real thing.
I began to search for knowledge on blogs and Reddit until I found a recipe so simple I had to give it a try.
1 can of coconut milk
3/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 tsp kosher salt
It was so simple. Melt the ingredients together on medium-low, then boil and reduce for 20 minutes. Let cool in a glass jar and store in the fridge. I made it last night and it was marvelous!
I found Vanilla Bean Oat Milk ice cream at the store for a sundae, and bam, I was a kid again, making an ice cream sundae with my grandparents on a summer evening.
What is a flavor that takes you home? Is there a food you haven’t had in a while that will comfort you in these trying times? Make it, your inner child will thank you.
It’s been a complicated week. I had plans to start blogging every day, to clean my house in one day not over several to prepare for hosting Thanksgiving. I also thought my pie crust would roll out with ease. Nothing went to plan.
It started with the couch breaking. One evening we noticed the leg fell off the mid-support but instead of buying a new one (Have you seen the price of couches lately? Yikes. Dubious quality to boot.) we opted to fix it. Improve it really. That was a bump in the road, the couch is stronger, and we have storage, but then we hit a pothole.
It’s like our rescue rabbit Mia unbonded to us. She became irritable and aggressive and would thrash around her room. She bites at us, growls at us, and won’t let us do normal things like sweep out her area. This whole situation is discouraging because how will we be able to properly care for her if she won’t let us? I never experienced this with my previous rabbit, Midnight, or with my family dog, Sully.
I was thrown into a murky mental pool. I have some deep memories from childhood of my dad that terrify me when loud outbursts happen. How could this happen? This rabbit I was so excited to adopt and give a loving home, was suddenly a source of triggering panic.
Cleaning ground to a halt. Kyle’s woodworking is uncertain. Walking through the office and living room tense, uncertain, scary, as the furball held us in her grip of territorial fury. She began to destroy the floor filling me with despair.
Every little part of preparing for the holiday felt treacherous as the C-PTSD clouded me from the reality of the tasks in front of me to the mountains of my mind. The craggy, inhospitable rock that has been too high to climb. I didn’t expect this random experience to cause such pain and confusion in my mind.
But the clock kept moving forward and things still needed to be done. This holiday we looked toward with joy could not become a thing we wanted to run from. It was our first holiday here.
Living as a human can be so tough. We are all broken and have hidden scars that can be reopened in the blink of an eye. What has been the most challenging part of this week has been where I find my pauses to take a breath. Finding opportunities in the chaos to recenter instead of giving up.
Making those pies was one of those moments of joy in the center of the storm. Cutting the Crisco into the flour is rhythmic. Feeling the sand become dough, stimming. Rolling out the crust and having it fall apart, is tragic! Finding the inspiration to make the difficult crust mold into the pie tin anyway, is a victory!
Seeing the smiles the pumpkin and apple pie brought to my family filled me with warmth. Yesterday, was a wonderful day. Yes because the food was delicious, but more so for the reminder that what makes the day special is being next to my loved ones and reflecting on the year and what blessings we received despite the chaos of life.
I hope you know that you are loved, dear reader and that you remember not to give up!
My favorite treat as spring has spring and summer rolls on has been homemade strawberry milk! As a kid I thought this was something you made with Hershey’s Strawberry Syrup but as I began to learn more about Japan and Korea, I discovered the real strawberry milk. Strawberry milk, banana milk, etc. With real fruit flavor and I had to try it! But there is one problem, I can’t have dairy without making myself sick.
This is why my favorite strawberry treats – strawberries with whipped cream and jello pretzel salad are no longer treats I can enjoy. It’s a bummer but if I make the strawberry milk myself, I am able to enjoy it.
And so this year I find myself happily blending strawberries in a food processor. Straining the seeds with a mesh strainer and spatula over a measuring cup all for a spectactular little treat – strawberry milk!
In Portal 2, Cave Johnson has an iconic rant about lemons that may have been the inspiration for my Saturday plan – to make dairy-free lemon curd from scratch.
To clarify, no lemons were exploded. But they were zested, juiced, and combined into a luscious lemon sauce and baked into lemon bars. Tart, sweet, buttery, lemon bars.
“All right, I’ve been thinking, when life gives you lemons, don’t make lemonade! Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! I don’t want your damn lemons! What am I supposed to do with these? Demand to see life’s manager! Make life rue the day it thought it could give Cave Johnson lemons! Do you know who I am? I’m the man whose gonna burn your house down – with the lemons! I’m gonna get my engineers to invent a combustible lemon that burns your house down!”
-Cave Johnson, Aperture Laboratories
But why did Cave Johnson speak so deeply to my mood on Saturday morning, one of the best times of the week? Well my dysfunctional family, of course. Communication is truly an art form, and for some relationships, healthy communication seems as easy as replicating a Michelangelo masterpiece with a butter knife. I am a member of that club. I feel like sometimes a conversation with my mom is doomed from the start. I call her and there is something in the air. A mistaken tone she finds in me, a lack of matching her extroverted, neurotypical energy.
The inability to recognize drama or harshness in her tone. My anxiety and frustration at being accosted by questions, picking remarks, or in general still not living up to whatever I was supposed to. It’s a mess, a mess that continues to respawn after numerous attempts to get rid of this and live a drama-free life with the mom that I do deeply love even if sometimes I get exasperated at her. This was one of those conversations, I did something and the verbal missiles were locking on me, which was really disappointing because it was supposed to be a simple conversation – what time are you coming up to celebrate my husband’s birthday?
Instead, there was chaos, my confusion at why there was chaos with questions followed by accusations of trying to fight and being told I was being a problem, gaslit into the aggressor when I held my temper in check and just asked questions. There seems to be no light at the end of the tunnel. I was being baited into a fight and it sucked. It was a conversational sucker punch. Some weeks I don’t even want to pick up the phone, I yearn to move far away from the possibility of hanging out with her, because I just want to be loved not picked at. Being lonely but happy feels better than being close and miserable. I feel like she brings all the drama-ma-ma-ma-ma and then runs away from me after her work is done.
In the screaming silence that followed the nasty encounter, I felt confusion, anger, hurt, sadness, failure, shame, disappointment, a building pressure of anxiety and depression, and the complex childhood trauma memories flooding back of her gaslighting me into thinking I was a kid with an un-teachable spirit, a stubborn child who spirit needed to be broken because seeing things differently from her was a sin.
I feel sorry for my mom because none of those things are true, and keeping me at arm’s length hurts both of us. We only have so much time on this earth, wouldn’t it be better to be laughing instead of arguing, smiling instead of crying?
I’ve learned there is nothing wrong with me. I’m neuro-divergent and God made me this way for a reason. There is beauty in being different, but she can’t see that. She sees me as difficult, and I in turn see her as small-minded.
Recently, I’ve turned to baking when I feel down in the dumps. For a while, baking was quite painful for me, after Grandma passed away in 2020. She was the one who taught me how to bake and that void made baking a chore. Since watching the Great British Bake Off, I’ve found my baking delight once again. We had a bunch of lemons on hand for a separate recipe, and since the rest needed to be used, I decided to make something I’d never made from scratch before. Lemon curd.
They make it on Bake-Off and I used to love eating lemon bars and lemon meringue pie as a kid, it was Papa’s favorite pie. We had it each year on his birthday. It was the bomb. The tart, lemony sharpness of the filling with the pillowy sweet clouds of meringue on top, slightly browned like a marshmallow with a flakey crust. Scrumptious.
Fun fact: My grandma dressed, acted, and looked a lot like Mary Berry. Watching Bake Off is like a hug.
And you know what, baking helped. I felt the tension melt from my shoulders as I zested the lemons and squeezed the juice into the bowl. The delicacy of separating yolks from egg whites required me to slow down, to breathe through the emotional stress. I made a cup of herbal tea and began work on the sugar and butter. After combining it came time to use the bain-marie to slowly temper the eggs and cook until thickened. The result was a dreamy curd that I was hoping for!
Out of pain, something beautiful came, and the next day I made shortbread for the lemon bars and layered the golden yellow lemon sauce into the pan for a delight I hadn’t had since childhood. Next time we’ll make that lemon meringue pie.
I’m glad I’ve learned coping mechanisms like baking, cleaning, stimming, etc so that I am not tempted to rage at my mom, clench my jaw, get drunk, or go on a shopping spree to fill the pain with stuff. It’s been a journey but through my tumultuous twenties, I learned that the dysfunction is never going away but who I am and how I respond to it are not beholden to other people and their poor behavior. And that is true freedom.
Have you ever made lemon curd? Do you like lemon meringue pie or lemon bars? What’s your go-to way to calm down after a stressful encounter? Thank you, dear reader, for coming along on this blogging journey with me. I’m incredibly thankful for you.
For a while now, during Easter Week, I feel a bit like Charlie Brown, and like unsatisfied Chuck, I’ve been doing some thinking. Why does it feel like however I’m celebrating Easter that year, it’s just not exactly enough or appropriate for the gravity of what Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Resurrection Sunday truly represent?
Tradition!
Some of this feeling is my fault as I have changed churches a lot and gone through big moves and stretches of not knowing where to attend for a complex of reasons. That being said, I remember as a kid the feeling of joy and exaltation that filled the house from Palm Sunday on when I lived my grandparents. There was the music, a 1995 Easter cantata that my Grandma would play while baking tea rings, a Swedish wreath shaped pastry, for us and the whole neighborhood. It was a tea ring factory filled with music that told the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry, his walk to the Cross, his death and Resurrection, as told from different perspectives of witnesses.
My grandparents, I see now as an adult, gave me an example of balance for this holiday, because it wasn’t somber and it wasn’t trivialized into a holiday about bunnies and chocolate with a splash of Jesus. There was genuine joy, faith, and love for others expressed. Grandma would usually play piano at church on one of the Sunday services and Papa would help serve communion as part of his duties as a church Elder. He and I would enjoy the Easter chocolate after service and my extended family and friends would come over after church for a meal. There was usually a small candy egg hunt for me and my cousins too.
Since then two things have changed in my experience of Easter – the absence of family for those traditions and the absence of faith in our Easter celebrations.
When my mom got remarried I experienced my first Easter holiday where believing Easter was about Jesus was weird. My new family were and are some of the nicest people I’ve met and yet, this day was so weird because I’m not exactly sure what we were celebrating? As they grew up in the church but had moved away from the faith into adulthood and raised my cousins without any context of Jesus, it was an odd day, full of love and great memories, but a bit hollow? It was eye opening in a good way of the bigger context of the world and how not everyone believes the exact same things as you but you can still get along. It was a point of maturity for sure and put this ache in my heart for the old holidays with my grandparents.
The weirdest of these experiences for sure has been the holiday with traditions but without family. Do traditions matter if there is no one to share them with? It’s a weird place to think through because you don’t want to lose your family traditions, but like, you can’t help feeling like its dead without the rest of the family to share with. And this is not because my family all died, no just my grandparents did, and my extended family on that side lives within a 10 mile drive of each other. They simply have no interest in getting along anymore and have just dropped our family connection because of silly disagreements and its sad. Being on the receiving end of it it honestly feels like crap. There have been holidays I have absolutely dreaded because of this and its taken time to start to be okay with the new normal of being an island.
Love Your Neighbor as Yourself
Something that has helped me move forward to a new normal has been to focus on what the holiday is actually about – Jesus’s death and resurrection so that we can have salvation from our sins and become a new creation in Him. In doing this I found myself ironically back at the same problem, no matter how I celebrate this day it doesn’t feel like enough. Until yesterday while I was doing dishes and was daydreaming, I thought about something I think is profound.
I think the reason this holiday in the United States feels a bit flat is because this day represents a moment in humanity that is a bit bigger than just a day of remembrance. It’s a day where I want to give thanks to God for sending his son to do this amazing work of redemption. It was the ultimate gift that I have received. It symbolizes a new start and also a day of freedom and independence from my sin. It is essentially four of our major holidays rolled into one – Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and the Juneteenth/4th of July. Because of this I’m not sure if I will ever feel truly satisfactory with how I celebrate this holiday. I don’t think its possible and that’s okay. And potentially how the Reformed Presbyterian church (as much as my Wesleyan mind grumbles giving Calvinism the nod here) is right and celebrating the resurrection every Sunday is the most satisfactory.
So I guess my point here from all my rambling is that I miss my family, I wish they would come back but if they don’t its okay because there are others who love me that may not share my beliefs and the ultimate point of this holiday is not ham, candy, or pastry, it’s the resurrection and what we do with this fresh start. Giving in love of our time and our resources to bless others with what we have to continue what Jesus started almost 2000 years ago. He is risen! He is risen, indeed.
Whenever I am feeling a bit glum, I think of baking. I learned this from my Grandma. Her mom, who lost her parents at a young age and grew up quite poor would make herself “feel” rich by baking a cake.
I think this is such a sweet sentiment to hold because baking is something you can do with a little money or a lot of money. You can make something for yourself for a little pick me up or can brighten someone else’s day. It is shareable, communal, and made with love.
Baking is a moment of connection for me. A connection through the generations. So much about our present world is different from what it has been in the past, except for food. Food bridges those time gaps.
It even bridges distance and time. As I baked last Monday evening, on the other end of the phone my sister-in-law had just finished baking her own cookies and was making dinner. It was like we were together in a shared experience.
Mixing, resting, rolling. The process of rolling the dough to a thin layer, dunking the shaped cutter in flour, and pressing a new image into the dough was timeless. I could have been four or fourteen or thirty and made these cookies with my mom. We always did every year, every Christmas time. I sent her pictures of the cookies and we reminisced about years past.
The dough, the cookie dough reminds me of meals at Eat’n Park and their free smiley cookies. It’s childhood, cozy in a bite. It makes me feel rich in memories and moments spent with people I love.
Baking is my cozy corner of retreat, cut-out cookies my warm fuzzy blanket. I think that is what makes The Great British Bake Off irresistible. What a wonderful place of solace in a gloomy world.
Thank you, dear reader, for spending time with me today. I wish you love and comfort wherever you are.
Each week I find myself, hands covered in dough. The way I used to be as a kid, except instead of baking bread or sweet roll dough, I make a little thing called a scone. Or “scon” depending on whether you hail from Northern Ireland. It’s a simple thing. A new part of my routine. That little moment of quiet time, as I cube the cold butter and measure the dry ingredients. It’s a ritual. Between my fingers, I delve deep into the bowl molding vegan butter, sugar, flour, and baking powder into a sandy mixture. A sandy mixture that feels like the sand on the beach, a little wet, pliable. The sand I still love to squish in my hands, in a drifting mindless void of experiencing the texture. A sensory delight.
In the rhythm, I cube the butter. Careful, long cuts with a sharp knife divide, and divide again until with swift chops little butter cubes line up on the counter. Flour cup after flour cup, building a powdery mountain in the bowl. A sprinkle of sugar, leavening, and salt. Blend, blend, blend, and watch Youtube. Let your mind drift away to far places. Watch the squirrels hop around the yard. Add water and raisins, and make a wet, sticky dough. With a spoon drop the scones one by one on the parchment. A warm oven, here they go.
My scones are a bit like biscuits, a little like shortcakes. A dash of raisins, the quick lift of soda bread. They are an amalgamation of what I remember relatives baking for me as a kid, and a new thing influenced by new boundaries. New limitations by a dairy-free restriction put into the practice of a nostalgic moment. I cannot bake the way I used to, but I can still make things with new ingredients. I can carry on the old ways of the past but in a way that makes sense to me.
Coming from a Northern Irish background, my grandma’s side called them “scon” and she made them with raisins. She drank tea and ate them with a little butter. Traveling south, I had biscuits – buttery and lightly sweet biscuits which felt like these scones of my memory. Strawberries and shortcakes, with a dash of whipped cream, a dish reminiscent of evenings at my mother-in-law’s house. A quick baked treat after a long day of hard work, that we would eat while my father-in-law showed us old episodes of Star Trek. Irish Soda Bread is an item I discovered later on in life to celebrate my heritage. A treat my mom would make on St. Patrick’s Day. Its dense yet fluffy texture creeps its way into my scones. These are a bundle of memories in one bite.
A bite I have quite often now. A bite that is my current breakfast staple with a handful of berries and almond milk whipped cream. I eat this with a cup of Yerba Mate.
I used to avoid breakfast, I simply wasn’t hungry. Then I picked up some bad habits like granola bars, pop tarts, or sugary cereals to start my day. This is the first breakfast routine, I appreciate. Maybe it’s the responsibility of making those scones by hand and keeping the freezer stocked for the week that has given me agency. Or an open eye to how food is nourishment, not fuel, not the enemy, nor is it a coping mechanism that reminded me to enjoy this simple thing.
It’s Monday, and I only have one scone left. I’m honestly looking forward to getting my hands covered in dough, in my little weekly routine. To create that taste of home in one bite. For the love of baking. The joy of homemade, handmade things that are a privilege to make.
One Rabbit Riot 