This is two straight weeks of pancakes, but I’m trying to get it right. “Pancakes for all proclivities” is my motto. Not really, but here’s another recipe anyway.
These are made with four ingredients: Coconut flour, eggs, salt, and gluten-free baking powder. Super simple. And it makes two big pancakes. There’s no bullshit commitment to a huge batch. You’re not left pondering where it’s all went wrong with a plate of twenty-seven pancakes, suddenly realising you’re completely alone in the universe. Nope, this is a meal for one. Possibly two; if you have a small child who will take one bite and then tell you “nope”, and to basically go stuff yourself.
I like them though. They are nice with a little butter and maple syrup, but best as a savoury base. I topped mine with cheddar cheese and a fried egg. I have no groceries in my house, but this hit the spot.
Try it! I hope you like them. I you don’t, go stuff yourself.
Savoury Coconut Flour Pancakes
3 Eggs
2 Tbs coconut flour
2 pinches salt
1/8 tsp baking powder
butter/ghee/coconut oil for cooking
Mix all ingredients to a smooth batter.
Heat a pan over medium heat and melt your fat of choice.
Pour in half the batter, and cook for two minutes.
I have a headache. My eyes hurt, and this morning I cried in the shower.
The past few weeks I’ve relied on coffee to pull me through the fog of sleepless nights. Normally I’m a great sleeper, but lately I keep waking up in the middle of the night…panicked. And then I feel the need to immediately find answers to such topics as:
Total Gym. Were Chuck Norris and Christy Brinkley banging?
What was Hitler’s mountain house called?
How tall is Fiona Apple?
Anyway, my eclectic sleuthing has caught up with me, and I must get back on the wagon. I’m on day two of no caffeine, and it sucks. I’m distraught, tired, and still no closer to unraveling the mystery of Chuck and Christy. All I want is a coffee.
Banana Pancakes
2 ripe bananas, mushed
4 eggs, beaten
pinch of salt
pinch of cinnamon
splash of vanilla
coconut oil for greasing the pan
Mix it all together.
Pour scant 1/4 cup rounds into a medium heated and well oiled skillet.
Cook for 2 minutes on one side, flip carefully and cook for another minute.
Serve with butter and chopped nuts, or any other feexins you desire.
Enjoy. I mean, they’re not like regular pancakes, but they are sweet and a little custardy.
I like writing this blog. All my favourite recipes are collecting in one place, and it’s a good outlet. The voices in my head are weird…even for me, so letting some of the oddness out in a constrictive way has to be a good thing. It makes me less likely to ask for hug on the bus as least.
Anyway, I usually make a bit of an effort with my recipes or my writing; and sometimes both. But not today. It’s hot as balls, and I can’t be arsed to do anything other than write, “I can’t be arsed” and give you the stupidest recipe from my favourite children’s cookbook.
Lo siento.
Maple Snow
*Variations:
Urine
Toil for forty-five minutes with ice cubes and your cousin’s Snoopy Snow Cone machine for a paltry tablespoon of ice-shavings.
A few days ago I was thinking of all the neat things I’d like to accomplish by my 40th birthday. Then, it struck me that I already have a very long list of stuff from New Year’s that I’m actively not accomplishing.
These were my 2016 goals:
Get my UK Driving Licence.
Perform at least one pull-up.
One month of Whole Food 30.
Learn to sew.
Write for thirty minutes a day.
Commitment to 4 days a week of exercise.
Run the Buffalo Marathon.
Tell my shrink what those voices in my head are really saying.
Yoga once a week.
Floss twice a day. Real dental floss. Not just that pipe cleaner bullshit.
Read two books a month.
The only thing I kinda did was run the marathon. And I know I didn’t exactly run it…but, I’ve lost three lesser toenails, and I’m about to lose my big toenail. THE ONE THAT EVERYONE SEES. Therefore, given I’m about to have Mother Teresa’s feet for the next 9-12 months, I’m going to allow myself that accomplishment.
The rest of my resolutions have gone the way of slutty girls in horror movies. Dead…stabbed, bludgeoned,or drowned in the tub. Maybe I’ll try again next year? But for now, I need to learn to play the accordion to surprise my brother with a fresh version of “You’re So Vain” for Columbus Day.
Anyway. Here is something real in this world of vapours, mists, and “should do’s.”
Macadamia Chicken Fingers
*I forgot to take a picture. This was all that was left.
Chicken breast, cut into finger strips
1 egg, beaten
Nut mix
Preheat oven to 425f/225c.
Line a baking tray with parchment paper.
Dip the chicken in the egg and roll in the nut mixture.
Place on the lined tray and cook for 16-18 minutes.
Eat as you would normal chicken fingers.
Nut Mix:
1 cup ground macadamia nuts (almond meal works great too)
1 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/2 tsp ground cumin
Mix together and place a bowl.
Take a small portion onto a shallow plate and follow the directions above.
This makes extra, which can be kept in the freezer for use at any time, so try to only use what you need to coat the chicken.
I’m not oblivious to the fact that this blog has devolved into a self-piteous testament to my homesickness. But please cut me some slack. It IS, after all, the 4th of July. I am missing barbecues, my town’s 10K race, and some sort of red, white, and blue jello salad.
If I were in the grand old US of A, somebody somewhere would definitely have a pool, and they might even invite me over for a swim. A dog or two would be dressed up (against his or her will) like Abraham Lincoln. There’d be a small parade, with a high school marching band in suffocating polyester uniforms and elaborately adorned shakos. At least one child from that marching band would pass out, mid-tuba-blow, from heatstroke. There would be hot dogs, hamburgers, and hope that the one guy everyone loves to hate will toss a firecracker down his pants, or at least into his mouth. All that is missing from my ultra-comforting vision is me…drawing a penis in the inky night sky with the trailing glow of a sparkler.
But, I’m in London. My only plans are taking some crappy English breakfast tea to the river and dumping it in. If I’m alone I will surely shout, “NO TAXATION WITOUT REPRESENTATION!” and “WE HAVE IT IN OUR POWER TO BEGIN THE WORLD OVER AGAIN! But really, that’s not what the 4th is about.
It’s about this: Sitting under the stars with your big sister, getting nibbled by mosquitos as fireworks explode way up above. A man in a cowboy hat screams “WHEEE!!” every single time a firework goes off. It’s about your sister, waiting for the perfect, moment to say in her loud, clear, sweet, twelve-year-old voice, “He mister, you watch them, you don’t ride them.”
Or at least that’s what it’s about to me.
All is not lost though. When the sun goes down, I have one sparkler left.
Happy belated 4th of July.
Smoked Haddock mini pies/frittatas
300 g/.65 lbs smoked haddock
50 ml/1/4 cup milk or cream
2 TBS coconut oil
2 leeks cleaned and thinly sliced
1 garlic clove crushed
2 tsp fresh horseradish grated or 1TBS horseradish sauce
1/4 cup parmesan cheese grated
1/4-1/2 tsp salt
ground black pepper
Preheat oven to 180C/350F and grease 8 muffin holes.
Put the smoked haddock in a shallow dish and pout milk or cream over it.
Cover with foil and cook for 15 minutes.
Drain and set aside, allowing the fish to cool. Once cool, remove skin and flake into pieces.
Heat the coconut oil and add the leeks and garlic.
Cover and salute for five minutes until the leek is softened, then remove the lid and cook off the liquid.
Beat the eggs with the salt and pepper. Add 2 TBS parmesan cheese, horseradish, and flaked fish.
Pour into the eight holes of the muffin tin.
Sprinkle the remaining parmesan over the muffin/pies.
Bake for 20-25 minutes.
Allow to cool a few minutes before removing from the muffin tin.
I don’t really have anything prepared for today. Since I’ve gotten back from the States, I’ve been living on pork rinds and and the delusion I can’t fasten my jeans because of “water weight.” I haven’t felt much like cooking. Or…showering, brushing my hair, wearing anything that doesn’t have sharks on it, or fully committing to my 20 step skin care routine. All I want to do is watch “Eastbound and Down’ and pull off my dead toenails. Three down, two to go.
I did have the energy to make this cauliflower sandwich bread, which made five tasty sandwiches. The bread is good, and dare I say…has a cheesy flavour.
Cauliflower Cheese Bread
1 head cauliflower blitzed into small pieces
100g ground almonds
1/2-3/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp onion powder
2 TBS nutritional yeast *optional
4 eggs (lightly beaten)eggs
Heat oven to 200C/400F.
Line a baking tray with parchment paper.
Mix together the cauliflower, ground almonds, salt, onion powder, and nutritional yeast.
Make a well in the centre and add the eggs.
Mix together to form a dough.
Spread on the dough on the baking sheet and cook for 20-25 minutes.
Allow to cool before removing the parchment paper and slicing into bread pieces.
Today, I’d like to talk about cold sores. Otherwise known as “fever blisters” (by people who are in denial that they have cold sores), or “facial herpes” (as my niece keeps reminding me).
Until two blissful years ago, I was a sack of poop who would say something along the lines of, “Gosh, I’ve never had one of those before.” to anyone expressing discomfort at the moistly pulsating scabs on their lips. Then, I experienced my first cold sore. The virus must have certainly been there awhile…buried and dormant, like Angelina Jolie’s painfully thin Russian sleeper cell character from the movie “Salt.” And like the movie, my cold sore sucked something fierce.
It troubled me. Every conversation I had, whether it was with a family member or total stranger, revolved around my rebirth as a person with a finicky, yet virulent, and contagious facial virus.
“I have a cold sore,” I’d start, making eye contact, hoping they could see beyond my weeping disfigurement through to the same, emotionally-stunted and insecure person I’d always been.
“I have a COLD SORE.” I’d add, again, when they invariably steered the conversation away from my cold sore.
When all else failed, I’d fire out the question I really wanted to know; “Do you still love me?” (Which was mostly aimed at siblings and ex-boyfriends.)
Surprisingly, most people did not want to be drawn into the drama of discussing my HSV Type 1. I mean, nobody wanted my face anywhere near them, but they treated it as a temporary disturbance. On the faux pas scale of “full blown Ayn Rand obsession” to “spinach in the teeth,” the cold sore ranked closer to spinach. Mostly, people want to talk about themselves, or ride the bus in peace.
Anyway, I have another one. I confided to one of my sisters the plan to share my not so secret secret with the three people who read this blog. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that I should absolutely NOT write about my cold sore on a food blog. She also said that I was still an attractive person who did not need people knowing all this junk about me.
So…you still love me, right sis?
Without further ado, here’s a recipe for Gochujang
Gochujang (Korean Hot Pepper Paste)
This stuff is great on any meat or vegetable, as a marinade, or mixed with mayo for a delicious dip.
It is a probiotic, which helps with gut health, which may help bolster the immune system of those with AIDS or cold sores.
1 cup water
3 TBS brown sugar
1/3 cup korean chilli pepper powder
3/4 cup miso
3/4 TBS salt
1 tsp rice vinegar
Sterilise a jar.
Mix water and sugar over a low heat until the sugar is dissolved.
Add the chilli powder and blitz with a stick mixer if you desire a finer texture.
I can’t decide where I want to be, and it is something I’ve been struggling with for a while. I think I’m coming to realise that wherever I am is not the place for me. Which is awesome. I think I might move, because 1 in 3 road accidents happen within a mile of home.
Years ago a friend of a friend asked me, “Where would you prefer to live, the US or the UK?”
“Well,” I told him, “I’d like spend my time between the two.”
“In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, then?” He asked, with an expression only a 24 year old named Percy can pull off…self-satisfied, and with a mouth set like a butthole.
Really, what a dickhead, but so, so funny.
Now, I’m back in limbo. I had a great time in Buffalo. Mostly, I ate like the bulimic character in Meridith Baxter Birney’s Lifetime movie, “Kate’s Secret,” but without the purging. But, of course, there was more to it.
The US has my sisters, friends who accept chicken wing eating challenges, parents, and the early summer scenery that keeps “Little Pink Houses” on a constant loop in my head. The UK has my kitchen, …is London, and has a seven and a half mile park I can run around in complete safety. It’s awesome, but adds a touch of Cowslip’s Warren to my soul. (Sorry, I can’t help but reference “Watership Down” when I’m blue.)
But, if you can’t be with the one you want, love the one you’re with. Right? At least geographically speaking. So, I’m going to love London to the max. Like, an all encompassing “make out for hours” and “sit on London’s face” kind of summer love. Then, I’ll see how we are by September.
Avocado Pesto
This was the first meal I made when I arrived back to the idyllic London suburb I now call home. I threw it over some rotisserie chicken and courgette/zucchini noodles.
Top with some parmesan. It’s good and keeps surprisingly well in the fridge.
2 avocados
1 1/2 cups Basil leaves
3-4 cloves garlic
1/3 cup toasted pinenuts
2 TBS lemon juice
1 tsp salt, or to taste
1/4 cup olive oil
Pulse all the ingredients except the olive oil in a food processor until finely chopped.
Add the olive oil, with the motor still running, until incorporated and creamy.
I have a dear friend called Clau…well, I’ll call her “ChiChi Meringue.” She’s 45 percent of the reason I come back to Buffalo to visit, and is 80 percent of the reason I want to move back permanently. We go way back. ChiChi rescued me from living with a girl whose cat pissed on my bed, and then tried to cover it up by pouring ammonia over the mattress.
The years I lived with her were the best of my life. We cracked each other up, smoked marlboro lights, drank enough amaretto sours to be constantly phlegmy, cooked food together, and had opposite tastes in men. In other words, bliss.
There were, of course, a few bumps along our road.
Like the time we had a heated argument at four in the morning where I accused her of pulling a knife on me. Really, she was only making a tasty sandwich.
Then, there was the time I walked home from The Old Pink, drunk out of my mind. Along the way I picked up a stray cat. I believed the cat and I needed a fresh new beginning that could only be accomplished as team. ChiChi said “NO” to the cat, and I left him on the porch, miles from the life he had known.
And of course, arguing about something, (can’t remember what) where I punished her, (but mostly myself) by inexplicably sleeping in our clawfoot tub.
Wow. Seeing it in writing, I’m an absolute nightmare.
In honour of my beautiful, wonderful friend; here is her famous rice recipe. She’d make this when I’d be super sad after getting dumped by yet another man with frosted blond hair. So, at least twice a month for two years.
I’ve always wondered if I could just run a marathon. Like, get up out of bed, go to the starting line, and run 26.2 miles. On May 29th 2016, I was given the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. Yes, I can mostly run a marathon. To be precise, I can jog 17.5 miles, and then bow-leggedly amble the rest of the way like a forlorn sasquatch seeking a mate.
A while back I wrote about how I had begun marathon training. And I did train. I completed my long runs, short runs, tempo runs, and endurance-building weights sessions. I had some injuries, but I also had a physiotherapist who looked like a young Ernst Hemingway. Twice a month he adjusted my pelvis and attached electrical suction cups to various parts of my body, turning up the voltage as high as it could go. Honestly, I felt on top of the world.
But, other parts of my life crept in and made me sad. So, I took it out on the Buffalo Marathon. I quit. Not running became the protest of my unhappiness. I refused to train. I made kimchi and fed water kefir grains. I felt very sorry for myself.
Yet, on race day, there I was at the starting line, unawares of how I had gotten there…like a politician who wakes, covered in blood, alongside a dead prostitute. Since I was there, I figured I’d jog a little. A very long story short, I put one swollen foot in front of the other and crossed the finish line almost SIX HOURS later.
I’m proud of myself in the way idiots who survive boxing a deer or lighting their farts on fire are proud of themselves. I’m so stupid, but I’m still here. I got a medal too.
Hot Chocolate for Idiots
*This is from my favorite cookbook, Many Hands Cooking-An International Cookbook for Girls and Boys. Because it’s geared towards children, it is also useful for adults who make stupid decisions and fuck up a lot.
*I want this sooo bad.
The Lunchadora 