Somehow between standing in the Post Office queue, washing the kitchen sink, waiting for the electrician, and whipping cream, the past few days have been spent on who-knows-what. There have been handfuls of sun thrown into this week’s bowl, and the massive egg-beater that whips the winds into a frenzy has come often. This is the time of year when Scotland’s weather is ahead of my native New Jersey, when the grass turns green besprent with florals, and birds wake me up (but, goodness, why do the gulls always feel the need to scream at each other?).
But what I wanted to write about today is this: the other day, one of Walker’s friends was wondering why, in democratic meetings, so many people say they just want to put it out there. No, he said, don’t put it out there! Keep it in there! Such is the phantom floating over my fingers as they are about to put something out there you likely won’t care about. But, this is my blog, so I tell myself not to care. (Really, I do care, but anyway.)
Backing up, when I saw the movie Julie and Julia last year, I couldn't believe someone famous had said the same thing I've always thought: I love to eat! That's mild. Sorrowfully, my body doesn’t like as many foods as my tongue. Since I was a second-grade pipsqueak, I haven't been able to eat a lot of things in the grocery store, so there’s a lot of from-scratchin’ going on here.
All of this is to say I’m pushing my feet into tight hiking boots for another natural food adventure (for my thyroid's sake), and I tell myself it’s an adventure because it’s unknown, something new. No, I tell myself, you are not forever relinquishing a whole lot of yum. I’m going gluten-free (ish).
And so, world, I’m putting this out there so that it’s said. Because, I’ve meant to do this for a long time, but when it comes down to making a separate dense-like-a-wet-sponge pizza crust for yourself and light, fluffy pizza crusts for your company, it's not easy. But, there have been some GF (see, I already know the lingo?) wins. Just let me show you.
Irish soda bread. Toasted, you'd barely know the diff.
I woke up late Saturday with a headache and around noon checked my planner, only to see Farmer’s Market. You betcha I threw on my coat and hustled to get there before it closed at 1pm. Stellar find of the day was celeriac. It looks like an overgrown parsnip, but tastes like celery and fennel.
So it became soup, as all weird things should.
Speaking of weird, I have a strange need to make something new every time we have friends over for dinner. Last night, it was plum mousse with creme fraiche blancmange with roasted plum halves. Let's just say, it was weird. But, hey? GF! Ca-ching!
It's a whole new world of . . . well, it's a whole new world. I don't know of what quite yet. Perhaps social ostracism and tastelessness, but I prefer to think otherwise. In all solidarity, now that I've put all that out there, there will be little Mission GF talk again. I know it's unimportant and I didn't send you any life lessons, but perhaps that is why I love this blog; because, parts of my life are out there, and you can hold them up to the light with me, in all their ordinary-but-actually-amazing beauty. Loaves of bread and special dates, green plant life and the farmer's market aren't life-changing, but they are life. Thanks for still stopping into my little bloghouse. I hope you always feel at home.
And finally, the last thing to put out there is that the hyacinths have come. I've never gardened, but watching them shoot upwards and then proceed to pop open thrilled me. I'd run out to see their progress every morning, and now that they're open, I am amazed at their fortitude. High five to them!
Happy Tuesday, lovelies!