All posts filed under: chocolate

stacked|gluten-free chestnut sandwich cookies for love and happiness from a raisin & a porpoise

that old chest nut

Watch now while I do something that I feel certain has never even been attempted before. As you sit back and take it all in, I will deftly weave Kim Kardashian, breastfeeding, Margaret Atwood and chestnut shortbread all together in a single post. And people say New England is dull in February! In addition to having, and nursing, three children of my own, I worked for ten years or so as a counselor to new mothers. All of this made me kind of a boob nerd. [As an aside, may I say blessings on your path however you feed or fed any babies of your own. I hope you have or had all the support you need or needed on whatever path you took, and that your babies and you thrived, which is the point. A boob nerd is not the same as a boob zealot.] Here is a bonus, unadvertised mention of Madonna, to illustrate the extent of my boob nerdishness: I was at a party once where the host had Madonna’s big book …

chocolate pear jam, from a raisin and a porpoise

pear of aces

I have a new piece up over here, if you are of a mind to read it. Meanwhile, our cavalcade of apples continues unabated.  “I have never in my life seen so many apples,” said my sister, who has seen a lot of apples. Mind you I am not complaining about the apples, though I am a little tired. Are you making lots of pies? ask innocent persons who don’t deserve a black eye.  Pies. Indeed.  WHO HAS TIME TO MAKE A PIE? Sometimes there is a dessert emergency when I am making applesauce or apple chutney or dried apples or apple juice or something else made of apples, and then I whip a pan of baked apples through the production line. Those are tasty.  I toss them with butter or olive oil, or a combination, and some sugar, or coconut sugar, or maple syrup, and maybe some hot pepper or lemon zest or something like that which is sitting still near to hand, and then I roast the little dears.  They are heaven with …



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 …