Something about the Wide Open Spaces
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Monthly Archives: February 2015
Foodie Tuesday: Tikka Masala Madness
We were both hungry for something Indian-food-ish. Really hungry. It was time to figure out a new recipe for a nice Tikka Masala-like sauce, for a change of pace. So I went hunting. I looked through my Indian cookbooks and went wandering online for a while, and found that the core ingredients for a creamy tomato curry seemed fairly stable from one recipe to another, but as with any sort of classic food, not only did the proportions vary widely but the peripheral or add-on ingredients did, too.
Jamie Oliver’s recipe seemed to me to sit somewhere right in the middle of the typical combinations, so I chose to use that as a jumping-off point for today’s home-brew. And what do you know, it came out pretty nicely. And relatively simply. I made a big enough batch that I could freeze a couple of meals’ worth, too. I opted to cook up the other parts of the meal (a batch of vegetables, roughly chopped prawns, and coconut rice) separately, then just took some of the finished sauce after it’d simmered for a while and spooned up customized individual combinations in bowls for our dinner.
This is a recipe where it’s particularly helpful to have your mise en place waiting next to the cooktop so it goes together very easily.
Tickled Tikka Masala
Finely mince or crush 2-3 cloves garlic, 2 Tablespoons fresh ginger, 1-2 teaspoons freshly chopped jalapeño, and 1 T grated citrus zest (I used lemon and lime together). Mix with 2-3 T lemon juice, 1.5 T chicken bouillon (I like Better Than Bouillon brand). Set aside.
Blend together dry ingredients: 2 Tablespoons garam masala, 1 T ground coriander, 1/2 teaspoon ground cloves, 1 T cumin, and 1 T smoked paprika, and 2 T freeze-dried diced shallots. Toast gently in 3-4 T ghee in a large pan over medium-low heat.
Add the citrus-bouillon blend and stir it all together to warm through. To this, add a whole can of rich coconut milk (13.5 oz Chaokoh, my fave) and stir it in. Add 24.5 oz canned tomato puree or sauce (tomatoes and salt only; Mutti Passata is my favorite) and about 2 T tomato paste. Let this whole thing simmer gently for an hour or two, covered, stirring occasionally.
Add whole milk yogurt or labneh to taste, serving by serving and garnish with chopped fresh cilantro. Or, if you don’t have a yogurt-and-green-thingies-averse partner like mine, finish the whole dish with them. Or you can top it with toasted coconut, with cashews, pistachios, bacon pieces, chopped dried apricots, or whatever suits your fancy. However you choose to do it, as you can see by the long list of ingredients and the longer list of recipes I surfed before landing on one of my own, the dish is endlessly customizable. And yes, it turns out, every bit as tasty as I remembered.
Nice Kitty
I’m a little ambivalent about certain acts or behaviors. While I would hate to be bumped off before my actuarially predicted time, having all sorts of thoughts about things it’d be nice to do before I croak, if it happened that I got knocked off some precipice in a windstorm and smashed into smithereens, it would be only fair for a bunch of buzzards to come and pick over my guts for the tastiest tidbits, even if I weren’t quite wholly dead yet, because… well, because that’s what buzzards are made for. It’s what comes naturally to them. They can’t be blamed for taking my squishy repose as an all-you-can-eat buffet sign.
On the other hand, you can’t take this as carte blanche and go shoving me off any handy cliff. As a person, you are expected to wait patiently for the wind to come up sufficiently for the aforementioned to take place and not be trying to hustle me off this mortal coil. It may come naturally to some humans to be quite treacherous, too, but there’s this little thing called ethics, if not sheer good manners, that ought to stand in the way of such things. So you’ll forgive me if I keep up the occasional glance over my shoulder at you but expect in general that you’ll keep your paws to yourself and let nature take its course, howsoever much you might wish to speed things up and all. I’m not that awful, am I?
Flea, Fly, Flew
I am not bugged by insects as much as many other people seem to be, but there are limits to my tolerance. I do not enjoy, for example, finding them taking blood samples from any portion of my anatomy without a doctor’s referral, nor do I appreciate having any of them buzz around my head with the persistence of a news helicopter hovering over a celebrity wedding site. But they can be intriguing looking characters, and the majority of them most certainly seem to lead fascinating lives, among their many and varied species, so as long as I can study them from a safe distance I am happy to either learn about them or merely continue my childish and fantastical speculations whenever the mood strikes.
For Love or Money
I don’t imagine I need to tell you that marrying anyone for the sake of his or her fortune (or for any other vain, shallow thing that offers no promise of compatibility) is far less likely to lead to a successful union than choosing a life partner for love’s sake. Yet it still appears to happen remarkably often, this rather forlorn hope that being financially impressive will be enough to overcome any other sorts of objectionable shortcomings. Far nicer, I think, to choose shared values, friendly companionship, mutual attraction, and the numerous other commonalities that can make real love bloom and grow.
On Valentine’s Day, as on any other day of the year, I am deeply grateful and outlandishly delighted that I found the person I can happily wander off with, hand-in-hand, toward our mutually appointed sunset, no matter what turns our fortunes will take along the way. We each have the advantage, as well, of being married to an artist, so there’s definitely no danger of either of us having married for the other’s massive bank account or hovering around hoping the other kicks the bucket soon so we can inherit untold millions. We’re just comfortably stuck with loving each other for the sake of love. Hurray!
Some Affections Take More Effort than Others
The artificial construct of American Valentine’s Day is a wonderful economic boost and boon for those who manage to take full advantage of the opportunity. And it’s not terrible, by any means, to feel a nudge toward wearing my heart on my sleeve a little more boldly and publicly than usual on occasion. But isn’t it also marvelous to be romantic and loving just because one really does feel kindly toward and admiring of another person? To do so not merely on one predetermined day of the year but any old time, and without requiring mass popular pressure to ensure that the signs of affection meet commercial standards, but rather, simply, that they please one’s beloved as a token of genuine affection?
Yes, I do still think it’s charming and admirable if part of what I feel moved to do is to shower particular tokens of tenderness and love on the object of my affections by treating her or him to a day of delirious delights smack dab on the aforementioned Official day of love and romance, along with any and all of the other days. Have at it! There is absolutely nothing wrong with honestly effusive compliments, dizzyingly gorgeous chocolates, fresh flowers, and champagne, if you ask me. Feel free to send them my way.
Ride Like the Wind, Even When Stationary
I’m told that once one learns to ride a bicycle, the innate sense of balance and knowhow to do so is easily reawakened after a long interval, the moment one gets back on the thing. Which, if it proves true, will be a boon to me after all of these years of not even owning such a contraption. Though that’s not entirely true; I merely own one that travels only in my interior world—an exercise bike.
This could be considered a concession to the oft-overheated world of Texas, where I find it hard to get motivated enough to stroll from the front door to the mailbox on a typical summer’s day let alone do something as strenuous as pedaling at speed on a bicycle. It could be considered a mere kindness to all who would rather not see me teetering on the brink of disaster no matter what my speed, let alone have to try to navigate safely around me. It could even be considered a cheapskate solution to the expense of bikes nowadays relative to what I remember paying for my first grownup sort of bike.
The latter, however, is quickly canceled out when you know how much indoor, stationary bikes for exercising personages really cost. They’re just as outrageous in price as any that can tootle down the roads. At least, this one was. But the big difference in price is in the personal health, safety, and well-being of this particular rider and all who are freed from the dangers of surviving my biking skills should I hit the actual pavement. I am not in danger of heat stroke on this baby, since it sits in the bedroom not far from the convenient ceiling fan, should I go so far as to break a sweat or simply fall into an unwelcome hot flash mid-ride. It stays upright, no matter whether I am properly centered on the seat or pedaling evenly enough or paying reasonable attention to the terrain, or not. In fact, I can lean back on its amply cushioned recumbent seat with my iPad or laptop propped on my midsection, reading articles and watching video and blithely ignoring anything to do with my steadily cycling feet without any fear of riding off a cliff or into a vortex-like pothole.
And nobody will ever have to see me in bicycle shorts. Period. You can thank me now.
Do I miss real bicycle riding? I can’t say that I do. When and if I live in a climate where I feel comfortable mounting up on one of the real-thing bikes again for a genuine outdoor ride, I will likely enjoy the change of scenery enough (barring any strenuous terrain, because I am a lazy cuss) to make it worth my while. Until then, I’m quite content to pedal furiously, or as leisurely and gently as I like, around the confines of a square meter or so of my own bedroom, ogling digital scenery or perhaps, if the bird feeder is freshly filled, a few wrens, cardinals, and chickadees whose chatter is probably about the crazy bicycling lady on the other side of the window who is obviously so feeble that she’ll never catch up with them.
Solo after Dark
If you’ve ever heard Miles Davis play, this needs no explanation. If you haven’t ever heard his music, whether you were lucky enough to catch it live or, like me, have only known it through recordings, it’s time you listened. Get a recording, turn it on, and turn off the lights or just close your eyes. And listen. Because.
Foodie Tuesday: Birthday Cake for a Peach of a Guy!
Dad, who celebrated his eightieth birthday last week, is a peach of a guy. His uncle was fond of using that phrase to extol the sweetness and excellence of anybody he liked and admired greatly, including his own nephew David, and Uncle Lloyd himself was special, as the only person in the known universe (other than us kids, who imitated him with a certain amount of childish glee when we heard it) who ever called my dad Davy. But he was fond and proud, too, of his nephew—enough to include him in the Peachy category. So to my father David, and to my late great-uncle Lloyd, and to all of the other ‘guys’ (male, female, or other) worthy of the title, I dedicate this birthday treat that I made in honor of their being truly swell human beings.
It’s a gluten-free pound cake recipe, essentially (as long as you check that the individual ingredients meet that requirement in their production, should you be truly gluten sensitive); I only went GF because I happened to find several GF pound cake recipes that piqued my interest and I also happened to have the necessary ingredients for this variant of them on hand. I made it with cardamom both because I think that a grand companion flavor for peaches and because, being of Norwegian descent, I believe there may be at least a hint of cardamom in my bloodstream. In any case, I love the stuff. Almond flavors, too, and what better flour to use in the cake than almond flour, then?
The topping, which of course one can eliminate if it’s too much for the occasion—not that I know any people who absolutely adore sliced, toasted day-old pound cake for breakfast, preferably with yet more butter melted on top—is less Norwegian in its overall flavor profile, perhaps. It is somewhat like a peach sangria, I suppose. But maybe I can pass it off as “Scan-gria,” if pressed for a commitment. No matter; it’s a bit peachy, zippy, happy, has a lot of color and flavor, and is pretty sweet. All kind of like Dad and Uncle Lloyd, come to think of it. PS—no law against using the icing for the breakfast version of this, either.
Cardamom-Almond Cake
Preheat the oven to 350°F/ca. 177°C. In a mixing bowl, whisk together 2-1/4 cups almond flour/meal, 1/4 cup coconut flour (I ground some from toasted coconut flakes), 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp ground cardamom, and 1 tsp baking soda. In another container (I like to use a spouted measuring pitcher for prepping liquids so I can easily pour them up when ready), blend 2/3 cup melted butter or oil (I used clarified browned butter), 2/3 cup raw honey, 1/2 cup + 3 Tablespoons full-fat coconut milk, 2 tsp vanilla and 1/2 tsp almond extract, and beat in 4 large eggs until all is blended thoroughly. Pour the mix into the dry ingredients and gently blend everything together. The batter fits into a standard 9×9″ baking pan or, as I used, a round casserole of about the same capacity, and goes into the oven for about 25-35 minutes.
My famously unreliable oven temperatures make me distrust giving anything other than approximate times and temps, and I just watch every individual dish, as I did this time. It’s a gooey cake, not light and fluffy, but I’d rather err on the moist side than otherwise. Just my thing. Meanwhile, I had prepared and refrigerated the icing earlier.
Tipsy Peaches & Cream Icing
Simmer together 2 ounces sliced freeze-dried peaches, 1/2 tsp rosewater, 1/2 tsp almond extract, 2 tsp vanilla, a pinch of salt, 1/2 tsp cardamom, 3/4 cup red wine, and 1 cup brown sugar until the sugar melts and the peaches are well rehydrated. [I warmed this mix in the evening until it was close to ready and then just left the pot sitting, covered, until the morning, so there was no question everything was well soaked and softened, but that was just because I was too tired after a long day of work to do it all that night.] Then, using a stick blender, puree the mix fully, adding 3/4 cup coconut oil (melted or room temp), 1 cup marshmallow fluff, and 1 cup cream cheese (or labneh). I threw in about 1/4 tsp silver edible glitter, just for fun. Refrigerate until ready to use.
I will confess to going a little further over the top this time, since I was in the mood to play with my food and it was for a good person’s cause. So I sliced a “lid” from the cake, carved out its middle, crumbled the interior hunk, blended it with a bunch of the icing stuff (reserving enough icing to drizzle over the exterior), packed the icing/cake crumb mix into the crater of the cake, closed the lid and covered up my tracks with a slathering of the remaining icing before putting peach (canned—it’s winter, y’all) and toasted almond slices on top of it all. I pinned the toppings together before sticking it in the refrigerator to chill out and set without sliding into oblivion. But it’s messy enough that it just might end up being a trifle or a bombe (possibly even a bomb) instead of a cake this way. And that’s okay. If I learned nothing else from my father, I did see in him a fine example of both how to make any situation work as well as possible—and how to play with my food.
My Portfolio
I’ll leave it to others, preferably sometime after I’m dead and even less likely to be concerned about it that I am now, to determine whether I’m a real artist or writer. No doubt there are, and will be, many who are dubious that I am a real person, for that matter. But it’s of little consequence, as long as I believe I exist. There’s room enough in my delusion for a number of delightful companions, and as long as I am happy in my imaginary world, all is well. But I will stake a small claim that, whether as a real artist or writer or a mere fantasist, I’ve been making art and writing stuff for as long as I can remember.
I think it unlikely that much of either kind of output will ever be considered especially valuable by others. I don’t flatter myself so far as to think that a large quantity of my work in visual or verbal invention is more than a passing amusement even to me, so there’s no reason to believe that the rest of the viewing and reading world will be so moved by my thrilling creations as to consider it important. And I don’t worry about that.
After all, I am as ephemeral as all persons of the human persuasion are, and thus unlikely to be troubled by anything lasting after I’m dead. I’m not one to concern myself with my epitaph (although I’ve written dozens of silly couplets and quatrains that would more than suffice in summing me up for a headstone, so that’s taken care of already if it worries you) or my legacy. The latter, I hope, will be to not have left too much of a mark on the world when I’m gone, but rather have trod on it fairly lightly, as these things go.
But because I am alive in an era when a veteran introvert like me can now also easily ‘go public’ without the great anxiety-production that comes from real world interaction with other humanoids, and in order to keep myself motivated to enjoy my practice of art and writing as much and as long as I can, why then: I am; therefore, I blog. Inevitably, others will feel it incumbent upon them to critique. Thankfully, the most succinct and practical form of critique in the digital age is first, to ignore, and then, Delete. So if anyone finds my work offensive or ugly, or just plain tedious and tiresome, their best defense of their tender eyebulbs and precious time is to run away from my website and never darken its portals again. I take the grand liberty of assuming that anyone who comes here does so unforced, and is free to go galumphing off in a cloud of huffiness when and if that suits them, and has therefore no cause to chastise me with wasting their life-energy here.
Meanwhile, having this platform for self-training and/or self-amusement, I go on producing new posts, new drawings and photos and poems and fictions and musings and digital collages daily and to my heart’s content.
But I consider that my portfolio is more than just a blog. It’s more than all of the art and writing and publications and stashed-away unshared works of my lifetime thus far and to the end of my days, whenever that will be. My true portfolio is all of the inspirations and ideas and inventions from the alpha to the omega of my lifespan, plus every experience and dream, study and accident, fear and hope and longing that led to those works of my brain and hands. And most of all, it is the collected community of friends, teachers, icons, playmates, correspondents, counselors, and loved ones who have moved, and continue to move, me to pour out this satchel of tricks and treats by which I will leave what little mark I do make upon the universe before I go.
Art-Colored Glasses 