comfort food, dessert, eggs, friendship, lambs, pudding, restoratives, what we want when we feel mopey is something from a spoon
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eating light


I am back. Mostly.

I have just spent a week taking care of someone I love who has been very sick for a long time, something a circle of us have been doing in rotation for over a year.  We travel, short distances and long.  We do what we can and often that takes the form of things we thought we couldn’t.

This time I crossed an ocean. Now I am in that odd physical state of suspension between time zones, where I want to check my watch when I am hungry to see what meal I should eat, and my heart is in at least two places, too.  And there is what my West Indian friend used to call “ruction” all around me, beyond this gnarly situation of mine: one friend lost her dad two weeks ago, and now her brother is in the hospital facing terrible odds.  Another friend’s mother died, and her brother is in the same condition. Flu and blizzards.  Falls and accidents.

I want light, just a morsel of it, to keep me going.

Yesterday, I sat down to write (butt in the chair!) but no sooner had I done so than my husband called from the back 40 to say there was a ewe in trouble and please bring the birthing gloves. Tis the season.

Two little black hooves greeted me, under the tail of that ewe.  And a snout.  But the mama was making no progress and her sounds told me she was hitting a personal wall.  It’s a sound I recognize, even with a language barrier.  A few well-timed tugs brought the lamb out–a big one! and black as licorice!–but didn’t keep mama from that wall.  Usually a sniff or two of the new lamb’s head will be enough to restore a tired sheep, so we ferried the slippery little item up to mama’s face, but in this case did not achieve the desired result.  She laid her self down.

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The borders between places on maps are well-defined. What divides more nebulous things–awake/asleep, still night/finally dawn, I choose life/I am done with all that–is not always so clearly marked. But there she lay, on that line.  I am done with all that, she said.

As I ran out of the house with the birthing gloves, I grabbed two other things: a towel, and a jar of molasses.  My husband rubbed the lamb with the towel, subbing in for the maternal licks that both clean and dry the lamb, and stimulate activities like breathing which are an important part of planting one’s little hooves on this side of the grass.  I dipped my fingers into the molasses jar (rest assured, we keep a separate one just for sheep, so it’s safe to eat gingerbread in our house) and swiped it through the mama’s lips.

My husband looked dubious.  The lamb reserved judgement.  The ewe lay there, then worked her jaws a bit.  Then a bit more.  Her eyes opened, and the glassiness was gone. All right, she said.  I’ll give it some thought.  She sniffed the lamb.  That magical nicker in the back of the throat–a sound sheep only make in the presence of their offspring–there it came.


Usually when I want light, I eat lemons.  Copious amounts of steamed green things with plenty of olive oil and lemon always help me along.  Edible light comes in other forms: a recipe from a new friend (I used pecans instead of walnuts, and the result was very delicious), smeared on top of the most delicious fresh Greek cheese, part of a massive airlift of calories from another friend who watched over my family while I was away.


That same source produced a bag of star anise, surely the most beautiful of the spices. Stress often makes me feel like I have forgotten how to cook, and returning to the tried and true sometimes jump-starts me.  I started this blog with baked custard, and with the little stars of friendship in my pocket, I returned to those roots.


baked custard with anise and caramel

  • 1/4 c sugar*
  • 2 1/2 c milk
  • 3 pods star anise
  • 1″ vanilla bean, snipped open
  • 4 eggs
  • pinch of salt

In a heavy saucepan, combine the sugar with 2T of water.  Heat without stirring over medium heat until the mixture comes to a low boil, and continue to cook until it’s a lovely medium amber.  Immediately remove the pan from the heat. Dump in the milk, the vanilla bean and the anise pods, and return to low heat.  Stir until the now-hardened caramel melts and the mixture returns to a simmer.  Back off the heat; allow the spices to steep and the milk to cool slightly.

Heat the oven to 325 and get 6 or 8 little custard cups ready by setting them in a pan that will hold them and some hot water.  Put the kettle on.  Find a little strainer, and the egg-beater, and a spouted measuring cup.

Fish the spices out of the milk. Beat the eggs in, along with a pinch of salt.  Strain into the spouted cup.  Divide the strained mixture among the waiting dishes, transfer the pan to the oven shelf, and pour enough hot water from the kettle in the pan to come half way up the sides.

Bake about 35 minutes, watching carefully at the end. For the silkiest texture, you want them just set (no wiggle when you jiggle), not puffed or cracked.  They will continue cooking a bit after you remove them from the oven, so err on the under-side.  Transfer the cups to a cooling rack and serve the custards either warm or chilled.

*If you like things a little sweeter, go ahead and bump this up to 1/3 c.



  1. narf7 says

    What a wild ride 2013 has been for you so far! One fundamental that we can always rely on is the swings and roundabouts of life…you might be having an incredibly stressful time right now and you might crave light like there is no tomorrow but there is a tomorrow and the swing can only go up. Love the recipe, the sunshine by proxy and I am sending you a snootfull of good old Aussie February heat to keep you going along with that lemon, oil and greens fix 🙂

    • janet says

      One of the friends referenced above said so far, regarding 2013: not a fan. But as you say, the pendulum does keep swinging. I’ve always been a big fan of snootfulls of Aussie warmth–so thank you!

  2. Your writing is beautiful. Beautiful.
    A friend sent me your blog, knowing I would love it. Reading this post feels like being captivated by those first few pages of a book, knowing I have hundreds more ahead to treasure.
    I know what I will be doing as the snow storm rages around me tonight. Thank you.

    • janet says

      Ok, my thoughts on 2013 are becoming a little more positive. Almost over the rainbow, you might say. Thank you for reading and writing.

  3. Could I borrow your pomegranate molasses? I don’t suppose there will be a run on star anise today, so my menu is safe. Just lining things up this morning and so grateful for you, who are a virtual snootful. Blessings on ewe, S

    • janet says

      You know what? It turns out to be MULBERRY molasses I had, not pomegranate. But it worked fine, and it’s yours for the snooting. Leaving it next to the jar of star anise on the counter. xo

      • Thanks for the provisions. I ended up squeezing the juice from real live pomegranites and adding a T of raw honey. My elder offspring declared it the best thing ever and if I could spell it, I would say it again..Mummarah… just read, mmmm. The custards? Just had my daily dose with runny lemon caramel. This has been our Nemo diet and set us up quite well. xo S

    • janet says

      Well, I know you will whip it good. There’s a baby lamb in a box next to the radiator in the kitchen; would you like to come snuggle it?

  4. I want to snuggle a baby lamb! And give you a hug, it sounds like a rough patch. I’m glad you’re finding bright spots, and hope you’re weathering the current storm ok as well. Pecans and mulberry molasses–a respectable regional variation!

    • janet says

      We have what you might call A HECK OF A LOT OF SNOW here, but all the supplies laid in to make your red pepper concoction (New England Walnut-Hater Style) again, so we are all set!

    • janet says

      So you’ve said–and so it turns out to be, every time! You’re welcome.

  5. You know I’m going to use 1/3 cup of sugar, right? I think you said that part for me. I might also stick my finger in the molasses jar while I’m cooking. Lovely, lovely, lovely post.

  6. Pingback: Sunday after #Nemo | Laundry Line Divine

  7. jenny says

    If it were possible for me to make a magical nicker in the back of my throat – a sound I’d make only in the presence of supremely beautiful writing – I’d be making it now.

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