I have no ads on my blog, no giveaways, no nothing that could possibly give me any mullah. I want people to hang out here for the same reason I do—because it’s interesting and fun and maybe a even a tiny bit challenging (it’s challenging to me for sure; for others, probably not so much). That I’m not trying to make any money is intentional—this is strictly (for now) a creative outlet. I don’t want anyone’s money, though I suppose I wouldn’t say no if someone were to hand me a check for a hundred dollars.

I had that happen to me once. Seriously! I was walking across a college campus—I wasn’t even a student—and some guy stopped me, waved a slip of paper and a wadded up shirt in my face and said If I give you a hundred dollars, would you wear this shirt? I stopped in my tracks, turned to stare at him, and then burst out laughing. It was the only sensible thing to do. Next I put him through a rigorous Q & A session and learned he was a scout for a downtown jewelry store—the t-shirt had the jeweler’s logo on it. Me, a non-jewelry person, becoming a walking billboard for a jeweler? HA! I took the money (said thank you), marched downtown, and confronted the jeweler himself. Everything was on the up and up, he said, so I took the money (said thank you, again) and sent it to the community women’s group that I had helped to form while living in Nicaragua. I figured they could use a bit of random luck more than I could.

Yet despite intentionally trying not to earn money from this blog, it has been a profitable venture in a roundabout, non-monetary-focused sort of way. It’s pretty simple, really. People read my ramblings and then somehow become inspired to give me things. Nifty, no? Either they feel sorry for me, or they’re worried about me, or they want to improve me, or they just have the Splendid Giving Bug. In any case, I’m surprised and delighted every single time. (And no, I am not posting this in hopes of tugging on your purse strings.)

Here are a few examples of what this blog has earned me so far: a candle, a zero-turn mower, a tablecloth, a subscription to Bon Appetit, pretty little plates (here’s one), not to mention all the recipe ideas and suggestions, and the encouragements and questions, etc. I’ve also inadvertently gotten some extra jobs—said one reader, I see you have quite the collection of Asian ingredients—how would you like to cook something Asian for our fundraiser dinner? (I said yes, but we ending up deciding on something about as un-Asian as you can get) and said yet another reader, I see you like to write—would you do a lectionary devotional for the church? (I said yes, and I’m still in the torturous process of paying the consequences.)

However, my most recent profit came about in the form of a large pot of lentils. After reading about the Lentil Wars, my friend MAC decided to help me win my family members over to the legume-loving side by bringing me some of the lentils she makes for her sophisticated lentil-loving family. I was going to meet her husband in town to pick them up (they live on the opposite side of the Burg as us), but then it snowed and she decided to drive them out to my house, on her daughter’s birthday, no less (this is called Going Above and Beyond). And then when she walked in to the house lugging a ginormous kettle of tiny lentils and brown rice and a separate container filled with feta cheese and I went to the cupboard to get a container to take out enough for our supper, she positively snapped at me.

“What are you doing?”

I told her, and she shook her head rather severely. “No. I have three kettles like this one at home—I don’t need it back any time soon.”

I peered at her, slightly incredulous. I hadn’t been concerned about the kettle so much as the tremendous quantity of food that was in it—it was like gallons of lentils and cups of feta. But she would have none of it and I wasn’t about to argue—it smelled delicious (and it was, though my family has not been swayed).

Now you would think that I would post the lentil recipe right about now, but I’m not going to. I am, however, going to post another recipe of MAC’s—a soup that she made for us after Sweetsie was born. I remember sitting around our kitchen table, back at our old house, with my three little ones (all under four years of age—yikes! how did I DO it!) scarfing down the soup like I was starving, or at least breastfeeding. It was creamy and corny, with nubby bits of wild rice throughout and smoked sausage for exclamation points.

When I asked her for the recipe, she said, “Sure, as long as you promise not to take it to anybody at church.” (Huh?) “It’s the meal I always make when I take people dinner and I don’t want someone else to steal my recipe.” (Okay, honey. I will not cook this for anyone at church. Cross my heart.)

I’m posting the recipe here (I have her permission), but I’m warning you: if you go to my church, you may not EVER, under ANY circumstances, make this soup as part of a carry-in dinner for fellow church-goers. You can, however, make it for yourself all you want.

The recipe, like MAC, is generous—it makes a kettle full. Enjoy!

Corn and Wild Rice Soup with Smoked Sausage
Adapted from MAC’s recipe, and I think she got it from Epicurious

This last time around I made a few changes, most notably that I used barley instead of wild rice; while I prefer the wild rice for it’s texture and color, the barley was fine. I also added chipotle powder, cilantro, and smoked sea salt, none of which are necessary, but all of which are delicious.

3 quarts chicken broth
1 pound smoked kielbasa sausage
2 tablespoons canola oil
2 medium onions, diced
3 carrots, diced
6 cups corn
7 ounces wild rice (or 1 ½ cups uncooked barley)
1 ½ cups half-and-half (I used raw cream)
½ teaspoon smoked sea salt
1 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon chipotle pepper
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
½ cup fresh cilantro or parsley, chopped

Cook the wild rice (or barley) with one quart of the chicken broth: bring it to a boil and then reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for about 30-45 minutes until the rice is tender and the liquid is mostly absorbed.

While the rice is cooking, chop the sausage into smallish bits and saute in the oil on medium high heat. After about five minutes, add the onions and carrots and saute for another five minutes. Add one quart of chicken broth and simmer for about 15 minutes, or until the carrots are tender.

Put three cups of corn into a blender with the last quart of chicken broth. Whiz thoroughly.

Add the creamed corn, cooked rice (plus its cooking liquid), chipotle powder, salts, and black pepper to the sausage mixture and heat through. Turn the burner off and add the half-and-half. Stir in the fresh cilantro and taste to correct seasonings.

Yield: five or six quarts, I believe.

About one year ago: style, and my struggle with chocolate biscotti

My kids were not fooled by the snow cream. They like it, kind of. But melted snow is melted snow.

The Baby Nickel is a little different than the rest of them. He loves snow in its pure unsweetened form. In fact, he goes around eating up the clumps of snow that get tracked into the house. He scarfs them directly off the floor and wolfs them down, just like a dog (not that dogs eat snow off floors). (Though since the snow-clumps are dirty they might not qualify as “pure”. Maybe he just likes the taste of wet rubber?) If I clean some of the snow up before he gets to it, he gets mad at me.

Like I said, snow cream doesn’t quite cut it. If anything, it got me craving for real ice cream. So when The Baby Nickel’s birthday came around and I asked him what kind of cake he wanted and he said, rapid fire, “Arainbowcakewithlollipopsontop,” I used my maternal powers to help him see the light.

“How about we do something different, mmm? Like, say, an ice cream cake? It would have peanut butter cups and caramel sauce and whipped cream. We could put sprinkles on top, or even some lollipops, if those are really important to you. How about it, kiddo?”

“Okay! Yeah! An ice cream cake!”

I love it when they’re three-almost-four, so easily sway-able. (And by the way, I’m not manipulative; I’m charismatic.)

When I was a kid, we got to choose the kind of cake we wanted, but then we weren’t allowed to see the end result till it was time to eat it. Mom did all sorts of creative decorative things (think watermelons and mailboxes with a can of coke stuck inside and barns and chickens); it was one of our presents. In my house, the kids (or, eh-hem, the mother) choose the flavor of cake and then help to make it. Getting to work in the kitchen with me is part of the present. (Wow. That made me sound terrible, like the type of mother who makes her kids eat popsicles in the bathtub. I would never be so picky; I just kick them out of the house entirely when sticky, drippy food is involved.)

So The Baby Nickel worked really hard to make his cake. It involved a lot of unwrapping.

And a bit of stacking and chopping.

And then there was some layering. We call it real-life geometry.

And then I drizzled the caramel, a la Jackson Pollock.

And then we did the layering part again. Practice makes perfect, you know.

It was a struggle to keep the other kids out of the kitchen. They kept trying to sneak in and snitch tastes, and every time The Baby Nickel licked something (and he licked a lot of things), there was a great outcry from the other children.

I heard all about how awful it was for him to be tasting and touching—He’ll make us all SICK! It’s DISGUSTING! It’s GROSS! It’s an ABOMINATION!—but I just smiled and chalked it up as a real-life science lesson titled Germs And How They Might Spread. (They didn’t actually say the abomination part.)

Did you have any idea that ice cream cakes were so educational?

They’re also good, but that’s just a bonus.

Not that we’re keeping track of points around here.

Ice Cream Cake
I think I got this recipe from my friend Wendy, but I’m not sure. It’s all over the web—one of the most basic and uninvolved cakes possible. And perhaps one of the best excuses to load up on junk food, especially when you’re smack-dab in the middle of a spending freeze.

This is not my typical dessert—the only homemade thing is the whipped cream—but it could become as homemade as you like. You could layer plain chocolate wafers (or make your own) with homemade ice cream of any flavor, drizzle it with your own fruit or chocolate or caramel sauce, and make your own candy (try this or this) to sprinkle over top. The options are endless.

24 ice cream sandwiches, unwrapped (duh)
2 cups heavy whipping cream, whipped and sweetened
1 12-ounce jar caramel sauce (I used about 8 ounces), warmed
1 big bag peanut butter cups, roughly chopped

Put a layer of ice cream sandwiches in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan. You may have to cut some of the sandwiches in order to fill all the nooks and crannies. Spread half of the whipped cream on top. Drizzle on half of the caramel sauce. Sprinkle half of the peanut butter cups over top.

Repeat the process: the rest of the sandwiches, whipped cream, caramel sauce (use flair!), and peanut butter cups. Cover tightly with plastic wrap, and freeze for a couple hours before serving.

Yield: way more than enough.

About one year ago: Potatoes with Roasted Garlic Vinaigrette

What with all this snow we’ve been having, my kids have decided to take advantage of the situation and go live in it.

They used the same materials and methods that Mr. Handsome and I employed when we built our adobe house in Nicaragua: a mold, a packable material (like mud or snow), and the block-building techniques they learned as toddlers, and that’s it. It’s much easier to build a house than people realize, but don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want to put Mr. Handsome out of work.

This house is rather sturdy, with thick walls studded with peep holes to let light in and provide a small scouting range. It’s insulated in there, too. I know because they never answer me when I call them from the Big House.

I really like the turrets. My kids have style and flair. I am so proud of them.

Miss Beccaboo looks like she’s stepped straight out of our Material World book, posing by her little home. She looks so hearty and durable and a bit squinty, like people who live in snowy climates always seem to end up looking. She’s a natural.

See, here’s a true-blue family from Uzbekistan.

Note the snow and the thick, heavy coats.

And here’s my daughter. That she’s from Virginia, you would never guess.

In order to make a roof, they stole some wood from the barn.

They stole a bunch of blankets and old rugs to cover up the door and to carpet the floor.

They sit out there and have a blast.

I think Miss Beccaboo might be slowly freezing.

Oops. There she goes. She passed out.

In Uzbekistan they huddle under green blankets, too. Maybe draping themselves with green helps them to dream warm, summery dreams.

Even I have gotten into the frigid spirit of things and have taken to harvesting snow as a major source of food for our daily diet.

It’s really quite practical. I just open the kitchen door,

swipe a bowl of white stuff from the great outdoors,

drizzle it with a mixture of cream, vanilla, and sugar,

stir it up,

and dish it out.

We call it Snow Cream. It does not fool anyone, but it’s still fun.

About one year ago: Lemon Tart