All posts filed under: baking

to the rescue: baking + dogs, on a raisin and a porpoise

to the rescue

I’ve had good reasons to put it off, but I can’t any longer. We have to talk about the dog. Or at least, I have to talk about her. If you would like to skip over potentially challenging things and head straight to cookies, scroll down a few paragraphs with my blessing. I truly understand the impulse, especially with the whole world on fire and everything. The part about the dog starts this way: Dog B, as I have referred to her here from time to time, was born in Puerto Rico, where nothing much went right for her and a great many things went wrong over a length of time we can only estimate, until she was scooped up in an angelic rescue bucket brigade that wound through Florida and New Hampshire (Oh, Florida.  Oh, New HAMPSHIRE.  But I there I go again, putting it off–) to our house on a hill in Massachusetts in 2009. She had a pretty nice time of it here. We provided a safe and pleasant place for her …

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those hot little cheesy biscuits | gluten free buckwheatgougeres on a raisin & a porpoise

boo to you

Once upon a time, we had a little baby, the third and final in our in-house series and the last installment for both families-at-large as well. I had always wanted a summer baby, so with our characteristic meticulousness, this baby ended up being due in early January. January 6th, to be precise, which is the holiday (in a religion not my own) known as Epiphany. My oldest nephew, the first grandchild in our family, started calling his cousin-to-be ‘Piph,” (that rhymes with ‘sniff,’ for those of you playing along at home) and it stuck as the in-process name; our first child’s had been ‘Sally,’ dating from the What To Fear When You’re Pregnant progress drawing comparing the little tenant to a salamander, and I think my oldest sister’s womb name was “Yitzik,” though I kind of wonder what I could be using that brain cell for if it were not devoted to storing such a valuable factoid. Long about mid-December, when I began to look like the boa constrictor float in a Little Prince parade, …

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crabby

Here’s something that I love: a crabapple tree. Do I love the sight of a springtime crabapple tree in full bloom? Yes, I do. But this is not the source of my affection, if we are being entirely honest. Do I love crabapple jelly? I do not. This, my friends, this is why I love the crabapple tree. I can see a crabapple tree positively dripping with crabapples, the scarlet orbs so wantonly abundant and perfectly ripe that they drop to the ground at the slightest brush of breeze and I can think to myself: drop away, wee ruby orblettes! Rot and fester! Compost your bad little apple asses right into the ground! Nurture every passing rodent, cervid and insect with your moldering pulp and blessings on your path. Do I want your sweet great-granny’s recipe for pickled spiced crabapples or your neighbor’s instructions for a perfect crabapple kimchi so that I can learn to love this fruit? Most emphatically I testify to you that I do not. Stand down, all ye who possess affection …

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