All posts filed under: gluten free

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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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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going crackers

I have a lot to thank Alice Medrich for. My college years coincided precisely with the last four years of her ownership of the legendary Bay Area bakery, Cocolat, and the portion of my freshman 15 not accounted for by See’s Candy bridge mix (purchase-able in increments of 25 cents, when we were window-shopping in the overpriced mall and pretending that we were not going to circle back for another dollar’s worth), nor by a horrifically caloric and delicious 2am niblet that my friend Nina pioneered (involving a bagel, an awful lot of butter AND cream cheese AND cheddar cheese, some tomatoes and both a toaster and a microwave), is all on Alice Medrich and the chocolate truffle, a Friday-only indulgence (or this is how I choose to remember it; if you have other data that contradicts, please keep it to yourself) that made a little team of four of us feel glam and luxe and very, very happy. I am not sure my thighs ever recovered, but in the correct hypnotic state I bet …

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