• sticky toffee pudding

    January 10, 2012

    We’re languishing, doing everything halfway. We’re halfway working, halfway playing, halfway sick(ing) (gotta keep it parallel), halfway eating, halfway writing. Even the weather is halfway weathering—a little snow, a little rain, a little sun—and the kids’ fighting is halfway, all aimless whining and bickering.

    Everyone felt better yesterday, though, and that’s when I made this pudding. I had a house full of kids—seven in all—and none of them sick. They played hard and ate much and the girls even cleaned one of the disaster areas (otherwise known as a bedroom) from top to bottom.

    One of my favorite meals to serve a houseful of kids, some of which are vegetarian (*!), is a large bowl of baked potatoes with butter and salt, a half gallon-plus of green beans, and applesauce.

    The kids eat and eat and eat, and then I give them a dessert of some sort, often a cobbler or crisp, or maybe a plate of leftover Christmas cookies. Last night they got sticky toffee pudding with whipped cream.

    I served it up and then quietly watched then eat. I couldn’t wait to hear their reaction (I’d snuck tastes and was totally head over heels in sticky toffee ecstasy), but they ate their dessert nonchalantly, slowly, minus any lip-smacking and mm-mming. The silence was unnerving.

    But then, then! One by one the kids looked at me as though they were waking from a deep sleep. Their eyes slowly focused on my face, and, trance-like, they held out their bowls. “Is there any more?”

    Sticky Toffee Pudding
    Adapted from Ruth Reichl’s blog

    Suggested variations: swap out the dates for raisins, add in pecans or walnuts, flavor the syrup with vanilla or bourbon. The pudding must, however, be served with whipped cream.

    for the syrup:
    1 cup brown sugar
    1 tablespoon butter
    1 ½ scant cups boiling water

    Bring all three ingredients to a boil in a saucepan. Reduce the heat and simmer for 20-25 minutes, or until slightly thickened.

    for the cake:
    ½ cup sugar
    1 tablespoon butter
    1 cup flour
    2 teaspoons baking powder
    a hearty pinch of salt
    ½ cup milk
    ½ teaspoon each nutmeg and cinnamon
    ½ cup chopped dried dates

    Beat together the sugar and butter. Beat in the flour, baking powder and salt (it will not be well-incorporated, so don’t stress). Slowly add the milk, beating after each addition. Fold in the spices and dates.

    Pour the syrup into a greased loaf pan. Spoon the batter into the middle of the pan—it will float on the syrup. Bake the pudding at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes, or until a cake tester (inserted only in the cake part) comes out clean. Cool for 10 minutes before inverting onto a plate.

    Serve warm, with barely sweetened whipped cream.

    *! My younger daughter proclaims she is now a vegetarian. This is not because of some great moral awakening, but rather because she wants to be twins with her vegetarian friend.

    Also, she has renamed herself, though I can’t right now remember what it is.

    Her teen years ought to be pretty interesting.

    This same time, years previous: eyeballs and teeth, a rant against the boob tube

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  • the quotidian (1.9.12)

    January 9, 2012
    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    *lunching on leftovers: pork tamale, oven-roasted poblanos, red beans, sour cream, mmm
    *bathtime humor
    *fun, deconstructed: a tree, a come-along, part of an old tire, a rope, a board, and siblings
    *cooking projects galore = dirty dishes galore
    *freezing cold weather and snow flurries at the beginning of the week gave way to…
    *brilliant blue skies and 60 degree weather at the end: it’s not climate change, folks—it’s climate WHIPLASH
    *studying: he’s joined our church’s Bible quizzing team, and is loving it
    *posh nosh: have you seen it? A BBC cooking satire, it’s a little on the raunchy side (my kids have seen some of it, though that’s probably not a good thing). Today I took notes. The mussels get “irritated” (scrubbed) and “thrilled” (boiled), and they have “free-range, homeschooled chicken.” They make their own stock, though “by all means, buy stock cubes if you have low self-esteem.” A few more episodes, and I may revamp the way I write recipes. You’ve been warned.
    *a new used Bible: at our church, the 12-year-olds are gifted Bibles with a twist—the parents have already had them for several months and have passed them around to family and friends so that they can mark up the pages and jot down their thoughts, words of encouragement, etc. This past weekend, my husband and son went to the 12-year-old overnight retreat. It’s a small affair, just the kids and one parent, plus the pastors—the focus of which is to celebrate and prepare for the upcoming teen years. The Sunday service following, the Bibles are gifted.
    *muffins: his breakfast contribution at the retreat
    *frying up the leftover pancake batter (fyi, three days in the fridge is too long): but just look at that hair! It’s red! Also, is it wrong for mothers to imitate their daughters’ hairstyles? Because I’m on the verge of doing just that.
    *sick girl: the (thankfully mild) bug has been making its rounds
    *birthday books: what I bought with my birthday money (and one more thing is yet to come)

    This same time, years previous: hog butchering, moving big sticks of wood, baking hash brown potatoes

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  • so worth it

    January 7, 2012

    Last night I took the girls to see Much Ado About Nothing. It was pay-what-you-will night, and, once again, we got to sit on the stage. The funnies kept happening, wave after wave of them. I laughed so hard my face hurt.

    I let the girls buy a treat from the snack cart. Spending outrageous sums of money for sugary drinks is one of my absolute no-nos, but I was struck with the image that my grown-up girls will have of me: our poor, pinchy mother who didn’t like to spend extra pennies on the fun stuff in life. That sour picture in my mind, I cracked open my wallet.

    Their eyes widened in amazed disbelief, but they wasted no time snatching up the twenty and prancing up to the cart where they asked for a Sprite in two cups and a bag of gummy bears. On their stools again, they gushed their thanks, thus confirming that I am correctly perceiving their image of me.

    But back to the play. It was hysterically funny. Really, really funny. On numerous occasions, the serious characters had trouble keeping a straight face, and there was one moment when the entire cast dissolved in laughter, unable to go on with their lines (thanks to the sharp-tongued Beatrice). But only twice did actors call “privy” (I mean “PRITHEE,” OH MY WORD, MY FACE IS RED!) which is pretty amazing considering the cast had only been rehearsing the show FOR TWO DAYS.

    This rawness is what makes the theater invigorating, alive, addicting. It’s pure magic to sit on stage (or anywhere else in the room, for that matter) with these incredibly gifted people as they act out these old (and sometimes new) stories.

    Also, where else would I allow strange men to (stage) whisper stuff about goat guts in my seven-year-old daughter’s ear? Nowhere, I tell you. The theater is special.

    To be clear, nobody is paying me to sing the theater’s praises. 
    I’m doing it all on my own, and quite naturally, too.
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