Birthdays & Buttercream {Vanilla Bean Cupcakes with Fresh Strawberry Buttercream}

"Cinderella, dressed in yella, went up stairs to kiss a fella.  Made a mistake and kissed a snake!  How many doctors did it take?"

It all started two months ago.  I was picking the kids up from school on an icy February afternoon.  The kind of day when the wind whips in biting gusts between the buildings and razor-sharp bits of snow sting your face.  I can't even call them "snowflakes" because "knives" are a much more accurate description.  I wrapped my scarf around my chin as I walked the block and a half from where I'd parked the car to their schoolhouse.  I was eager to get home, turn on the stove and start a pot of mushroom risotto for dinner.  As we drove home, she told me that she wanted to have her birthday party at a certain pizza place.  You, no doubt, know the one - singing robots, silly music,  flashing lights & the electronic hum of enough arcade games to make you half crazy, and mediocre pizza at best.  I think every town must have one and there's nothing wrong with this restaurant, once or twice in a blue moon.  But we've celebrated more than our fair share of birthdays there.   And in any case, I had other plans in mind.

She planted a seed that February afternoon and I began dreaming of April!  Dreaming of the promise of warmer weather (though no less temperamental, I must say).  Of planting the first pea and lettuce seeds in the garden, of cutting the first lilacs for the dining room table and watching the irises open-wide their bright faces to the sun.  Of cherry blossoms, green grass, and rain instead of needle-like snow!  I'd been planning a garden tea party for months, since her last birthday party, in fact, though in Colorado, the garden is only just awakening from it's winter slumber in mid-April and the weather is still quite cool.  So we'd bring the garden into the kitchen.  We'd tape flowers to the walls and butterflies to the ceiling.  And there would be vases of flowers of all sorts.  The only requirement being that they are all pink, naturally.  We sent Grandma out on a special mission to scour all the second hand stores and antique shops in town for just the right China tea cups with matching saucers.  A fun job it you ask me!  Each cup would be different and unique like the guests themselves, but each would have a pretty floral design that would fit beautifully in to the garden that our kitchen would become!

Forbidden Love {Vanilla Bean Pavlova with Strawberries & Cream}

"Some of the greatest stories ever told were never meant to be told at all . . . "

Stop me if you've heard this one. . .

Long ago there was a young girl named Xanat.  She lived with her parents on the sugar-sandy beaches of what is now eastern Mexico.  She played in the warm Mexican sunshine and ran free with childish abandon amongst the flowers & trees of the nearby forest.  She would frequently come home with an orchid, her favorite, tucked behind her ear.  She was a pearl in her mother's eye; a thorn in her father's side.

As she grew older her beauty blossomed like the flowers of the forest.  Fine features, long hair, soft as silk and black as the rarest pearl in the sea, and eyes so dark you became lost just staring into them.  But her most beguiling feature could not be seen, but rather felt.  For from within she radiated a sense of headstrong independence that both terrified and captivated all those around her.  Naturally, she took after her father.

She fascinated the young men of the village and soon they began vying for her attention.  One look in her eternal eyes and they were just as lost as a leaf floating on the vast, rolling waves of the ocean.  There were many suitors, but one young man won her heart and stole her soul.  Together they approached her father to ask for his blessing on their marriage.

Her father became enraged at their request.  "My daughter has hair of ebony, skin of gold, and eyes of the darkest roasted cacao!" he thundered.   "She will never marry a town peasant!  I forbid her to marry any mortal.  She is meant for a god!"

The young man cowered beneath his rage, but Xanat stood tall and faced her father with a stubbornness just as fierce.  "I will marry whom I will."  She proclaimed, anger rising like the swell of the sea just before a hurricane.

Morning ~ A Soliloquy {Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake & Spiced Coffee}

"The fire is dying, the lamp is growing dim, the shades of night are lifting.  The morning light steals across my window pane, where webs of snow are drifting..."-Gordon Lightfoot

Rituals.  They're what hold my life together.  Tiny moments throughout the day.  Strung together like drops of dew on a spider's web.  Each one, on its own, insignificant, but when laced together they form the framework on which I've built a life.  These rituals.  From the time I wake until I finally drift off.  They're sacred.

Rising from bed, bleary-eyed, shuffling down the dark hallway to the kitchen. (Was it Longfellow who said, "The nearer the dawn, the darker the night?")   Pouring fresh water into the kettle and putting it on the stove.  Sliding back the blinds from the large kitchen window.  Each day begins the same.  And if for some reason these rituals don't happen - a child is sick, I've overslept - then I'm quite lost for hours.

The kettle begins to whistle.  I hurry to turn it off before it wakes my sleeping family.  These treasured moments alone are not to be interrupted.  Mixing mahogany coffee grounds with rich spices in the bottom of the coffee press.  Watching the steam rise in soft, muslin clouds as I pour water over top.  These rituals start each day anew and bespeak the opportunities that await.

Standing in front of that kitchen window (it's my favourite spot in the house).  Watching the dawn break on the horizon.  I've said this before, but I had never actually seen a sunrise until my children were born.  It's true!  I never had a reason to rise while it was still dark.  Never craved the absolute peace of having the quiet, sleeping house to myself.  Never knew the bliss of listening to my children softly snore as I cradle that first cup of coffee in my hands.  I let the warmth seep into my palms, up my arms, into my soul.  I breath in the steam from my cup as the first rays of sunlight stretch through that window and across the kitchen floor, bathing me in golden warmth.  These morning rituals are the ones I cherish most.

Train of Thought {Chicken Saltimbocca with Wine Braised Celery}

When we first moved to this house I found the sounds of the passing trains very unsettling and quite irritating. 

We'd never lived so close to a busy rail road track before.  Freight trains were something that my son would play with on the living room floor, the wooden tracks snaking under the legs of the coffee table and over a sleeping dog.  These days, freight trains thunder by, just beyond the back garden fence.

I would get so angry when the train horn would shatter the silence as I sat in the garden at twilight with a glass of wine.  More than once I wanted to yell, "Shut up!"  as if that would help.  I was often startled awake in the middle of the night by the sound - no, more like vibration - of a stopping train.  The sheer force of each coal-filled car was enough to send shock waves through our already creaky, old house.  I used to hate the way my pans would rattle in the cupboards as a train sped by; the deafening squeal of the wheels on the tracks, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

I used to think we made a mistake, buying this house so close to those dreadful tracks. . .

But as the years go by, I'm surprised to find that I've actually grown to like the sounds of the passing trains.  The horn blasts are not so much an invasion anymore but rather like a friendly wave from a stranger passing ever so briefly through our little corner of the world.  I'm no longer startled awake at night, but am reassured by the vibrations of the trains outside.  Much like a reminder that, in the dark of night, though I can't see them, I'm not alone.  A reminder that the world is so much larger than what lies inside these four walls.  And that, strangely, is a very comforting thought.

I wonder - when my kids are grown and leave home will they miss the sounds of the train with the same passion as I once hated them?  Will they be startled awake at night by the silence?  Will they become lonely and long for that friendly wave?  Because to them, these are the sounds of home.

Warmth {Beef Bone Broth, Pasta e Fagioli, Rustic Onion Soup}

"I love you with my heart and I love you with my liver, if I had you in my mouth I'd spit you in the river..."

She'd always chant this little rhyme as she bundled us up to go outside in the cold. Crooked fingers fumbling with the zipper pulls on our jackets, always zipping them up a little too high and wrapping our scarves just a little too tight, before planting a wet kiss on our cheeks and giving us a gentle shove out the door into the snow.

I don't know why, but I woke up this morning with this little poem in my head.  I may have dreamt of her last night.  If so, the dream is lost in that black hole that separates sleep from reality.  Perhaps it will return tonight.  In any case, the sky was grey, the fog so thick that the sun barely made it through the bedroom window.  I had gotten a text from the kids' school hours earlier announcing a snow day, so I slept much later than I should have.

With the little verse still playing over and over in my head, I pulled myself from the warmth of my bed and crept down the hall to the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove.  Everything was perfectly still, the floor beneath the window was cold as ice...

I've thought of her every day since she died, but this morning especially, she was on my mind.  Always so concerned that we were warm and comfortable.  Her house was a temple of warmth - from the various throws and blankets folded neatly on the love seat, to the space heater on the floor by her feet, to the chunky, mustard-coloured cardigan she wore over a turtle neck every single day (a Kleenex rolled tightly into the fold of her sleeve), to the wall of west-facing windows that let in the winter sunlight.  And there was always a pot of soup kept hot on the back burner of the stove.  When we'd come in, rosy cheeked, with frozen hair, chattering teeth and icicles dangling from our noses, she sit us down at the table, wrap one of those warm blankets around our shoulders, crank up the space heater, and ladle us a steaming bowl of soup.  Always made with her meaty, gelatinous bone broth.

Marshmallow Winter {Peppermint Bonbon Tart and Toasted Coconut & Marshmallow Blondies}

I meant to share these recipes before Christmas, but as always happens, the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, and the meal planning, cooking and clean-up that goes with it, took top priority... 

I'm very good at over-booking my time.  I'm sure you were just as busy as I was, and it's just as well because these desserts are much more suited to make after Christmas, when, if your house is like ours, candy canes drip from the Christmas tree, marshmallows (for the marshmallow shooter my son unwrapped Christmas morning) are sitting around getting hard, and any number of Christmas candies are cluttering up the kitchen counters waiting to be eaten, or turned into a dreamy, wintery dessert.

December began in a flurry of icing sugar, snowy marshmallow fluff, winter-white whipped cream and cool peppermint candy canes.  It was my mother's birthday and I made her a peppermint bonbon tart.  It's a recipe that's been in our family for years, my grandmother used to make it for her when she was just a girl.  It's been passed down through the generations, and over time, forgotten.  I pulled out the time-worn card, made a few modern adjustments (like removing the shortening in favor of cream), and resurrected this family favourite for my mother's birthday.  This really is a candy tart through and through, from the solid chocolate crust to the candy cane laced filling.  And it's a perfect way to use all those Christmas candy canes!  Just be sure to use the red and white ones to get that gorgeous pink colour.  If you use the red and green ones your tart will turn out brown (though if you can find green and white candy canes that would be just as pretty!)  I had both so I used the green & red ones to garnish.

The candy-filled confections didn't end there.  A few days later there were the toasted marshmallow and coconut blondies that I whipped up after a chilly winter walk.  We live near a small wood with a stream that snakes through the trees.  It's a magical area just off the main road to our house.  If you make a right instead of a left you'll find yourself on a dirt road that leads to several little fishing holes among the trees.  I often see fishermen there, baiting their lines early in the morning when driving the kids into town to school every day.  On frosty winter mornings wisps of steam rise from the surface of the water and a cloud of fog hangs low over the trees.  As the sun rises, the fog melts away, leaving the bare tree branches frosted like sugar plums, and sparkling in the sun.  Tempted by the icy glazed wonderland and the sugar-fine snow, we felt a little like Hansel & Gretel as I turned right instead of left on that cold afternoon, drawn to the confectionery world deep in the forest.  It was going to be a short walk.  Just long enough to circle the largest pond.  But the sky was grey, the wind angry, and the snow was not soft or fluffy, but pierced like knives in the wind's sudden outbursts.  Not nearly the friendly world we saw from the car window, and our walk ended quickly.  We decided that on those days it's better to just stay inside and indulge our sweet tooth in front of the kitchen window.

Comfort & Home {Chicken & Caramelized Mushroom Fricassée}

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand, and for a talk beside the fire; it is the time for home.

Edith Sitwell

When it comes to comfort food I always think of Chicken Fricassée.  It reminds me of home, of hiking through a Colorado pine forest in winter.  Quiet.  The woodsy smell of thyme, the earthy aroma of mushrooms rise from the pot like mist from the forest floor.  Growing up in Colorado, these winter moments are what I miss most when I'm away.  The perfect stillness of a snowy morning.  The way the pine trees smell like toasted marshmallows and the way the air glistens with millions of microscopic snowflakes hanging suspended as if time itself has paused to take in the wonder of it all.  These simple experiences are what say "home" to me.  Which brings me back to Chicken  Fricassée.  It was one of the very first dishes I learned to cook from memory - and thank goodness, because I relied on it time and time again during my homesick years living abroad without a cookbook on the shelf.  It's a dish that encompasses every aspect of home - like the warmth that radiates from the kitchen stove on a quiet winter night.  I love to make a  big batch and share with family and friends!

This is a dish that, though it's one of my favourites, I often forget about it, in favour of trying something more modern and ultimately less satisfying.  What is it about Chicken Fricassee that I like so much?  I ask myself.  Then I make it and remember.  The slow-cooked chicken melts in your mouth.  The mushrooms are meaty and full of flavour.  The luscious sauce coats every morsel and is the perfect pool in which to dunk a big, crusty piece of bread. Yes, it's comfort food at its best!

Stone Spirits {Chicken & Rice Soup with Lemon & Thyme}

It was once thought that echos were the voices of spirits calling to the living from within the rocks... 

Some Native American cultures believed that a Shaman could visit with these spirits in stone, or manitous, as they were called, by leaving his body and passing through the solid surface of the stone.  Once inside he could trade with the spirits for tobacco, herbs, paint and medicine.  It was risky business - communicating with the stone spirits.  For if the shaman failed to carry out the ceremony correctly he'd become trapped in a prison of stone, leaving the shell of his lifeless body outside.

A few weeks ago we found ourselves here, among the spirits of the stones.  It's a little know place, off a dusty dirt road, about 25 miles outside of Colorado Springs.  Locals call it The Paint Mines.  It's a fascinating study in geology.  In a depression on the plains at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, richly coloured clay spires, capped with rugged sandstone hats, create a labyrinth of gullies and gulches.  Archaeological evidence suggests that humans have inhabited the Paint Mines for over 9000 years!  Striations of vividly coloured clay stretch across the stone pillars in layers- ochre, aubergine, and rose.  They were used to make ceremonial paint and to create and paint pottery, hence the name The Paint Mines.

Strawberries Forever {Easy Strawberry Muffins & Organic Strawberry Ice Cream}

It's early Sunday morning.  I'm in that hazy place where sleep is fading with the morning dawn when I hear her slipper-clad feet shuffling down the hall.  She pushes my bedroom door open.  It creaks on its hinges...

"Mommy?"  she says softly, barely a whisper.  I can feel her breath on my ear.

Relishing the warmth of the bed, I don't open my eyes.  The disheveled blankets envelope me like a cloud, the sheets are cool when I move my feet.  She persists.

"Mommy," she says again, brushing my cheek tenderly, the very same way I stroke hers when checking for a fever when she's feeling unwell.  "Mommy, I'm hungry."

I open my eyes just a bit.  Her face is three inches from mine.  Her hair smells like strawberry shortcake from the shampoo we used in the bath last night.  Even her little fingernails are painted strawberry to match mine.  The paint is chipped and peeling, but she still thinks they look beautiful, and so do I.  In one hand she clutches the leg of a pink, rubber monster - a prize from Halloween.  In the crook of her elbow she cradles a worn pink bunny the way all children tuck away their most loved objects when they need to use both hands.  It's her Velveteen Rabbit.

"Can we have strawberry muffins for breakfast?"

It's her second request for strawberries in as many days.  I've told her countless times that strawberries aren't in season this time of year.  Anywhere.  And that makes them all the more desirable.  Which is why I always keep bags of organic strawberries stashed away in the freezer.  You never know when the cravings will strike.

Yesterday it was strawberry ice cream made with organic cream and milk, smooth Madagascar vanilla, and frozen strawberries.  Because she's allergic to peanuts, nearly all brands of ice cream are out.  So I make it at home.  If ever I were to have a love affair with a kitchen appliance it would be with my ice cream maker.  Life would be dreadfully dull without it!  But I'm drifting off again . . .

Something in October {Carnival Squash Soup with Maple}

There's an old poem by Bliss Carman called A Vagabond Song.  The first stanza goes like this...

There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood-

Touch of manner, hint of mood;

And my heart is like a rhyme,

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

I must have first read this poem years ago as an English major in college.  I think of it often, walking down the tree lined streets; crimson, purple, and yellow in all their autumn splendor, leaves drifting, soft as feathers, to land on the curb below.

But it's not the first stanza of that poem that's resonated within me all these years.  It's the last...

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir-
We must rise and follow her;
When from every hill a flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

I've always felt that I have a bit of gypsy blood flowing through my veins, passed down from my father, no doubt, an author and artist by nature.  The blood of an artist is never satisfied.  There's always that deep pulling, that ever distant calling to go somewhere different, to wander, to explore, to look beyond the veil that separates reality from the imaginary, to stretch the limits and to reach for more.  All the while nurturing this thing within.  This thing that will eventually be called ART, if it doesn't drive you mad first. For me this feeling is especially persistent in October, when change buzzes like electricity through the chill fall air.

From A to Z . . . {Shredded Zucchini & Beef Burritos, Pickled Red Onions, & a Fall Apple Tart}

. . . or from Apples to Zucchini.

As fall begins, I feel like I'm holding on to summer for dear life!  I love fall, it's my favorite season, but summer went by far too quickly and I'm not ready to let it go!  The garden is dying but my counters are overflowing with courgettes and zucchini, and baby green tomatoes waiting to ripen.

My work schedule has been intense but extremely gratifying!  In fact, I just returned from an outstanding weekend in Las Vegas at the Food Allergy Bloggers Conference, where freedible was a sponsor!  With all that's been happening these days, it almost feels as if I've missed out on an entire season!  Consequently, I've had little time to write (as you've probably noticed and which I truly regret -- I have an ever expanding collection of recipes that, like cheerful stories told around the warmth of a fireplace, must be shared!) and even less time to tackle the growing mounds of produce that cover nearly every surface in the kitchen.  The time I do have is packed full of the adventures we should have had in summer, before school started.  To tell you the truth, it's rather nice to get out early on a cool fall morning and explore this beautiful region of Colorado.  Hikes, day trips to ski resorts, a drive in the mountains.  And of course, apple picking in the country.

Of all the perks living in Colorado offers, I think the one I enjoy the most is visiting these orchards which are just an hour away.  We drive out here every year, usually to the same orchard, on the same dusty dirt road, in the same sleepy town.  This year I was in the mood for change.  A friend mentioned that we should try an orchard in Penrose called 3rd Street Apples.  Through I'd never been there, the name sounded warm and familiar enough that I had to check it out.

An Abbey, Abandoned {Cardamom Carrot Muffins & Roast Chicken}

About an hour away, on the banks of the Arkansas river, is the small, agricultural town of Canon City.  The road is lined with apple orchards, pastures, vast fields of alfalfa, a derelict collection of buildings with faded facades and wind-torn signs, and a vineyard...

If there's any indication that this place is more than just a small country farming town, it's this vineyard.  Off the road, down a narrow drive, nestled among ancient oak and hawthorn trees, there is an old neogothic-style abbey.  A hidden gem in this rugged land of cactus and cowboys.  Its spires are barely visible above the trees, which is probably why I've driven past it with out even noticing for so many years. It's surrounded by vineyards, thriving in the rocky soil and intense Colorado sunshine.  Though the abbey was built in the early 1920's, it reminds me of something much older.  Like some of the grand churches in Europe perhaps, which is why I feel at home here.  It was used as a boarding house and school for many decades, and the vineyards were planted by the Benedictine Fathers in the hopes of establishing a world-class winery here in the heart of Colorado.  That never happened, and in the name of Progress, the abbey was eventually closed and abandoned.

There's something to be said about progress, but that will have to wait for another day.  Perhaps there's more to be said about the past.  About ways that are lost and dreams that are forgotten.  Recently the abbey was revived and restored by the historical society; the wild, rocky vineyards have been tamed and tended - and, better late than never, a winery was finally established in the out buildings behind the chapel.  Using grapes from the vineyards as well as other varieties grown locally, these days the abbey produces some of Colorado's finest, most treasured wines.