All posts filed under: cookies

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 …

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hit by lightening

I am reading a novel in the middle of the day.  Now there’s something crazy right there.  It’s Ali Smith’s How To Be Both (so good! SO good!), and when I read, therein, the phrase ‘hit by lightening,’ I realized that it describes exactly the feeling that results from performing a magic vamoose out of negative temperatures and icy pathways and long lists of things to do, to a place where reading a novel in the middle of the day, in a t-shirt, near a palm tree, is not only possible but actually happening. CRAZY. No layers to pile on, no strategies or routes to plot to get from house to car intact, and nerve-feeling restored in even the outermost extremes of all extremities. If I remember correctly, right before we got out of Dodge, I was making lemon cookies. I had seen a recipe pinned up on what my daughter refers to as “Tumblr for old people,” and I followed the link to find the instructions were in Italian.  I can hedge my way around …

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lemon apple jam bars, from a raisin & a porpoise

now we’re jammin’

Goodness me, can someone grab the license number off that truck that ran me off the road?  Vanity plates, you say?  Knew it!  SANTA1. It’s not that I wasn’t cooking over the holidays.  It’s just that, though I tried to keep them all spinning, the plate marked “photographing and musing aloud about cooking” was among those I dropped.  Sometimes when I think about spinning plates, I imagine my friend Roger the Jester and his ability to do nimble acts of balancing and make me laugh until I pee, and sometimes I think about a book I read long ago about a boy with sensory issues who liked to sit alone in a corner and spin a white plate on a tile floor to calm himself. The holidays saw me leaning more toward the latter example. I did manage to wring out the teeny tiny gingerbread houses, the ones that perch on cocoa mugs to the delight of children of all ages.  Longtime readers will recall that last year I made a batch of houses that …

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