Kona, Hawaii
I'm going to start you right off with this recipe so that you can run and make a couple of these, then settle in to read this remarkable story. Seriously.
Mai Tais
2 ounces dark Bacardi rum
1/2 cup pineapple juice
1/2 cup orange juice
2 tablespoons lime juice
2 tablespoons Cointreau
2 ounces Meyer's rum
Combine first five ingredients. Pour into two large glasses over ice. Float one ounce of Meyer's rum on top. Do insert a pineapple spear into the glass, or better yet, a paper umbrella.
2 servings
Aloha! We are at the Kona Village Resort with Sandra and John. This is the twelfth year out of the last thirteen years that we have celebrated my birthday there with them. Remind me to write about the year that I decided I wanted to go to Santa Fe instead. Good food. Freezing cold. But I digress.
I think that Sandra and John are the most beloved, or maybe just infamous, of returnees to the Village. They have vacationed there over fifty times (and yes, I got that statistic right). Their first visit was back in the early years just before 1970, when you could only gain access to the Village by small plane, as the road was not yet cut through. S & J are infinitely generous, loads of fun, and game for just about anything. We used to call them our “same time, next year” friends, because we never saw them between trips to KVR. The beauty in this was that we always picked up with an easy familiarity when we met again each year. But we can no longer call them that, because we have gone on to spend time with them in Tahiti, Panama, Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, and, of course, Carmel and Lake Tahoe.
This year, we left LA during baseball playoff season once again, and with the Giants being contenders, I am reminded of the World Series of 2002, when we watched the last game of the series at the Village. Billy and I had arrived on the day that the final Angels/Giants match was being played. As we checked in, the game had just begun. Tad, one of the two bellmen, drove us in the resort cart to our hale (see below), where we dropped off our luggage, and quickly changed clothes.
“Dude!” Tad had said to Billy. “Put some shorts on!”
Then, he drove us to the nether regions of the resort, where we had been told that a TV had been set up. This was a bit surprising, since the Village’s hales have no TVs (radios, telephones, etc.). We had considered going AWOL to The Four Seasons next door, where we were sure to find all kinds of technological advances, including televised baseball. But, no need.
Tad dropped us off at Hale Ho'okipa, a large partially covered area on one end of the lagoon, which is used for luaus. It is the largest structure on the Village premises, as the luau is a weekly event that is open to people not staying at the resort. A great place for an extremely large celebration, I thought, as we hurried inside. I expected to see a large group of fans, sitting before a wide screen television, drinks in hand provided by the bar located there. To my surprise, as we rounded the corner and into Hale Ho'okipa, we were met by the scene of two middle-aged men, both in baseball caps, sitting on polyvinyl picnic chairs, in front of a TV that looked to have about a 20” screen. It was balanced on a metal stand which looked like it came from the audio-visual department of my junior high school. Where was everyone?
One of the men, who turned out to be Barry, the dentist, looked up as we approached,
“Who are you guys for?”
I responded, borrowing Sandra’s line referring to their having gone to rival colleges (Stanford and Cal), “We’re a mixed marriage.”
“Yeah?” Barry said. “Well then, one of you is three-to-one.” That would be Billy, the alien Angels fan.
We introduced ourselves, then settled down into the white plastic chairs that looked like they came from the outdoor department at Target (ok, one last, nit-picking point about the ambiance). Shortly after we settled in, the other Giants booster, John, told us that that he was a little concerned about getting back to his hale. While on the road to Hale Ho'okipa, using the quickest trail alongside the lagoon, he had been set upon by the black swans who had nipped at his ankles. These swans, now deported from the Village, were notoriously mean-spirited, and were possibly Angels' fans.
After reassuring John that we would all protect him from the swans, we continued to watch the game with Barry and John. Barry thoughtfully made a beer run to the Shipwreck Bar, convincing whoever was bartending to charge a full six-pack of Kona Longboard Lager to his account. Over beer and baseball, we learned that John had attended Stanford (like Sandra), and Barry, like Sandra's John, had gone to Cal. I told them that they should meet John and Sandra -- especially after learning that Baseball John (this is getting confusing, isn't it?) and his wife were returning to KVR after a long absence. But they, too, were longtime returnees.
And, they did meet John and Sandra. Within a few days we were a loosely-knit group, coming together in various combinations at meals and, natch, in the Bora Bora Bar. It was like camp, all over again, except with martinis. All this fun and frivolity culminated on at midnight on Halloween when we all drank champagne on the beach, then reclined on the sand, watching a meteor shower in the brilliant Hawaiian night sky. But, I'm getting ahead of my story.
We spend our days at the Village under a four-poled palapa-roofed beach structure. It houses two lounge chairs -- and that’s all. These few structures dot the beach, and are spaced far apart -- far enough, I’ve often said facetiously, to have an argument or sex in relative privacy. The privacy on this trip was increased by the reduced guest population at the resort. When we arrived, the total guest count out of a possible 300, was around sixty. We lunatics were truly running the asylum.
During our week together at the Village, Baseball John and his wife, Sue, who hadn’t been at the KVR in recent years, were amazed by the sight of the large sea turtles on the beach. These honu (see below) make their way, moving laboriously and resting frequently, up out of the water to take long naps in the afternoon sun-warmed sand. The trail behind them is marked by a pattern made by their flippers, which they use to slowly propel themselves forward. It looks almost like an imprint left by tire tread. We had first seen this some years back, but it had never occurred on our early trips. We had taken tons of pictures of these turtles on previous trips. But, for the past few years, we had become accustomed to the sight of the many turtles we had seen slumbering on the sand. Business as usual.
On Halloween, Billy and I were alternately reading and napping the afternoon away on our lounge chairs. There had been an event the night before which had opened the Village up to the public -- a rare thing at our quiet Village except on Luau Fridays. And this event had opened up the bar for free drinks. So, we had celebrated, staying up late, and then celebrating some more.
Also, on that previous day, a hurricane in the Pacific had caused high waves, which had washed up all around us on our lounges. So, on this next day as we napped, the sand around our lounges was still wet from the prior day’s high waves and tides. Something we had never experienced in all of our past stays.
At first, when I was awakened by an unsettling shift of the ground under my lounge chair, I thought I had been dreaming. I fell back asleep. The next few thumps that woke me felt like small earth tremors. And as these convinced me that what I was feeling was no post-party hallucination, I decided to lift the towel that was draped over my lounge, and peek underneath. All I saw was an immensity of reptilian flesh. Dropping the towel, I jumped to the very top of my lounge, sitting on my haunches, hanging ten on the lounge rail.
“Billy! Billy!!” I shook his arm, waking him. “What’s under my lounge?”
Billy sleepily lifted the towel on his side of my lounge, then slowly lowered it again.
“Mr. Turtle,” he said, languidly.
Indeed. One of the large sea turtles had worked its way up the beach and right between the runners of my lounge. From there, while I was sleeping, he had proceeded under my lounge until he hit the crossbar which supported the adjustable part of the lounge. Every so often he attempted to advance further, creating the small tremors and thumps that had awakened me. But alas, he was stuck. In between tries, he evidently napped along with us. The three of us had become a unique Village ohana (see below).
My trepidation at having a honu, which was about the size of a large dinner platter, subletting in the basement of my lounge did subside. We were in Kona. Live and let live (the mai tais support this philosophy). So, we all settled back to our naps.
Before we left the beach, we lifted the lounge to allow the honu to turn around (they don’t do reverse well). Then, we left our new friend who now had a roof over his shell.
Initially I don't think people believed this story. But at the Bora Bora Bar that night, guests who had walked up the beach in the late afternoon told us that they had seen the chevron-shaped tracks leading right out of the water and under the lounge -- my lounge for the week that I am there. And they also saw the subsequent tracks back to the sea.
That palapa-roofed structure became my happy place. Whenever I have tried meditation or just to muster up a calming visualization, I put myself back there feeling the breeze on my skin, smelling the sweet Kona ocean air while relaxing on my lounge. And, without fail, I always remember to put a turtle underneath it all. Mahalo for reading my blog.
hale: house (in this case, guest cottage)
honu: sea turtle
ohana: family
mahalo: gracias
October 31, 2010
October 20, 2010
Fristers
Los Angeles, California
A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.
Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.
When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.
I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.
When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.
A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.
Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.
When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.
I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.
When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.
October 10, 2010
The M Word
Los Angeles, California
Speaking of things that don't change. Remember when Coca Cola came up with New Coke? How bad of an idea was that (even though I don't drink Coke...except at fifteen when, during a family vacation in Jamaica, my drink of choice was, you got it, rum & coke)? Anyway, bad idea was New Coke. But here comes something that seemingly hasn't changed. They are seasonal, so they disappear when the warm-weather months arrive. As a result, it's difficult to take them for granted, though possible to overindulge knowing that they won't be here forever. Even tempting. But, truly, right about the time that you're feeling, say, blase about them, they disapparate. Late spring and summer passes. Then, in autumn, they show up again -- just about when new-crop apples and pumpkins appear. They cause my heart to skip a beat when I first see their shiny yellow box shelved at my grocery store. They are here, and they are...Mallomars.
I used to know a professor who once said that if his students find out about his passion for chocolate, they have him. He confessed that he loved imported, Belgian dark chocolate, but that even a Ding Dong could bring him to his knees. That's me and Mallomars. And what is not to like? Unlike a lot of questionable-quality, market variety cookies and candy, these are dark chocolate. They are comprised of a little wafery cookie on the bottom, a blob of marshmallow on the top, with that chocolate enrobing it all. They have crunch, a bit of smoothness and a lingering finish of chocolate. Just thinking about them -- weak in the knees.
I'm not a glutton for Mallomars. A box of them will last me awhile. And while I savor them, I ponder the fact that they have been lauded in movies--specifically When Harry Met Sally and Regarding Henry. And I just bet they're name-dropped in other books and films as well. As they should be.
It being Mallomar season, and also time to provide a recipe, I searched my files and my brain for something chocolate. But, other than my Crazy Chocolate Cake, which I've already shared, and my Chocolate Ganache Cupcakes, which are cribbed intact from The Barefoot Contessa, I was surprised to discover that I didn't have a lot of chocolate recipes. This is probably because while I was growing up not a lot of attention was thrown to chocolate in our home. I have a sib who is "allergic" to chocolate. She suffers from migraine headaches, and was once given a list of potential migraine triggers. She only gave up chocolate. Not red wine. Not yellow cheese. Chocolate. As she continues to have migraines, chocolate-lovers might wonder what was the point of this. But you have to understand the secondary gain...that she has had a lot of fun sleuthing out chocolate in places one wouldn't expect to find it.
"I'm giving you back the lip balm that you gave me for Christmas."
"You don't like it?" I asked.
"Look at the ingredients. It's got cocoa butter in it."
Yikes.
But my favorite similar exchange about chocolate took place in the dining rooms of the cruise ships we were on each summer during a span of about fifteen years. Our mom thought it a great idea to take a 'girls' cruise' each summer, and she generously and graciously treated us to trips to the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Mexico, Bermuda, Canada, and Hawaii. No matter where we were cruising, I can guarantee you that this conversation always took place.
"For dessert tonight, we have apple pie, creme brulee, strawberry shortcake, chocolate mousse, ice cream and sorbets," our waiter (any waiter, on any ship), would announce.
"Excuse me," she said, gathering his attention with a fixed, suspicious eye. "The apple pie. Does that have chocolate in it?"
"No, Madame."
"How about the creme brulee?"
"No, Madame. No chocolate in the creme brulee."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Madame, I'm quite certain."
"The strawberry shortcake. Is there chocolate in that?"
By this time ALL of us table mates were rolling our eyes. There's no f#%&=$*! chocolate in strawberry shortcake we all wanted to yell, as this had been going on every friggin' night. Although...although...I do know people who line their pie crusts with a thin smear of melted chocolate in order to protect against sogginess. And in pies like pumpkin? White chocolate. It makes you think.
Having grown up with this, and knowing that she will not even eat chili because there may be cocoa in the chili powder (who knew?), I was groomed to be hyper-vigilant about what I serve to her. Except . . . there were those edamame. I always seasoned them with Williams-Sonoma's French Fry Seasoning. And she always, always ate them. Then there was that one time when she complimented me and asked me about the seasoning. So I read the label. And I put the can back, way far back on the shelf of the pantry, behind all the other seasonings. I said nothing about the cocoa, listed as it was at the bottom of the list of ingredients. Of course I stopped using it when she was visiting (and, by the way, she never had a migraine while she was a house guest at our home). But still, you have to think that a little chocolate got through. And a good thing that. I don't think there are many syndromes worse than chocolate deficiency. Can make a person cranky, and sometimes even downright miserable.
OK, to be fair about this, it's not like this was a real food allergy that could cause death from anaphylactic shock. I mean, she avoided chocolate like the plague, but she still got migraines. And those of us jumping through her anti-chocolate hoop got a few headaches of our own. But I am a dutiful sister, and so this is what I often made for her, beginning way back when I was in elementary school. It may have helped me get my cooking badge in Girl Scouts. I certainly made enough batches of it during that time.
Butterscotch Brownies
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup light brown sugar
1 egg
3/4 cup flour, unsifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup coarsely chopped pecans (optional)
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
Melt butter over low heat. Remove from heat, add sugar,and stir until blended. Cool. Add egg, mixing well. Stir in dry ingredients, then vanilla and nuts (if using).
Spread into a well-oiled eight-inch square or 5x7-inch pan.
Bake approximately 20 minutes.
You can, of course, frost these. Chocolate frosting would be pretty nifty, as would adding mini-chocolate chips to the batter. But traditionally these are prepared sans chocolate. I'm such a traditionalist, I would suggest that these go well with a glass of cold milk. And certainly a chaser of Mallomars couldn't hurt. 'Tis the season, after all, and thank you (especially you chocoholics -- you know who you are) for reading my blog.
Speaking of things that don't change. Remember when Coca Cola came up with New Coke? How bad of an idea was that (even though I don't drink Coke...except at fifteen when, during a family vacation in Jamaica, my drink of choice was, you got it, rum & coke)? Anyway, bad idea was New Coke. But here comes something that seemingly hasn't changed. They are seasonal, so they disappear when the warm-weather months arrive. As a result, it's difficult to take them for granted, though possible to overindulge knowing that they won't be here forever. Even tempting. But, truly, right about the time that you're feeling, say, blase about them, they disapparate. Late spring and summer passes. Then, in autumn, they show up again -- just about when new-crop apples and pumpkins appear. They cause my heart to skip a beat when I first see their shiny yellow box shelved at my grocery store. They are here, and they are...Mallomars.
I used to know a professor who once said that if his students find out about his passion for chocolate, they have him. He confessed that he loved imported, Belgian dark chocolate, but that even a Ding Dong could bring him to his knees. That's me and Mallomars. And what is not to like? Unlike a lot of questionable-quality, market variety cookies and candy, these are dark chocolate. They are comprised of a little wafery cookie on the bottom, a blob of marshmallow on the top, with that chocolate enrobing it all. They have crunch, a bit of smoothness and a lingering finish of chocolate. Just thinking about them -- weak in the knees.
I'm not a glutton for Mallomars. A box of them will last me awhile. And while I savor them, I ponder the fact that they have been lauded in movies--specifically When Harry Met Sally and Regarding Henry. And I just bet they're name-dropped in other books and films as well. As they should be.
It being Mallomar season, and also time to provide a recipe, I searched my files and my brain for something chocolate. But, other than my Crazy Chocolate Cake, which I've already shared, and my Chocolate Ganache Cupcakes, which are cribbed intact from The Barefoot Contessa, I was surprised to discover that I didn't have a lot of chocolate recipes. This is probably because while I was growing up not a lot of attention was thrown to chocolate in our home. I have a sib who is "allergic" to chocolate. She suffers from migraine headaches, and was once given a list of potential migraine triggers. She only gave up chocolate. Not red wine. Not yellow cheese. Chocolate. As she continues to have migraines, chocolate-lovers might wonder what was the point of this. But you have to understand the secondary gain...that she has had a lot of fun sleuthing out chocolate in places one wouldn't expect to find it.
"I'm giving you back the lip balm that you gave me for Christmas."
"You don't like it?" I asked.
"Look at the ingredients. It's got cocoa butter in it."
Yikes.
But my favorite similar exchange about chocolate took place in the dining rooms of the cruise ships we were on each summer during a span of about fifteen years. Our mom thought it a great idea to take a 'girls' cruise' each summer, and she generously and graciously treated us to trips to the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Mexico, Bermuda, Canada, and Hawaii. No matter where we were cruising, I can guarantee you that this conversation always took place.
"For dessert tonight, we have apple pie, creme brulee, strawberry shortcake, chocolate mousse, ice cream and sorbets," our waiter (any waiter, on any ship), would announce.
"Excuse me," she said, gathering his attention with a fixed, suspicious eye. "The apple pie. Does that have chocolate in it?"
"No, Madame."
"How about the creme brulee?"
"No, Madame. No chocolate in the creme brulee."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Madame, I'm quite certain."
"The strawberry shortcake. Is there chocolate in that?"
By this time ALL of us table mates were rolling our eyes. There's no f#%&=$*! chocolate in strawberry shortcake we all wanted to yell, as this had been going on every friggin' night. Although...although...I do know people who line their pie crusts with a thin smear of melted chocolate in order to protect against sogginess. And in pies like pumpkin? White chocolate. It makes you think.
Having grown up with this, and knowing that she will not even eat chili because there may be cocoa in the chili powder (who knew?), I was groomed to be hyper-vigilant about what I serve to her. Except . . . there were those edamame. I always seasoned them with Williams-Sonoma's French Fry Seasoning. And she always, always ate them. Then there was that one time when she complimented me and asked me about the seasoning. So I read the label. And I put the can back, way far back on the shelf of the pantry, behind all the other seasonings. I said nothing about the cocoa, listed as it was at the bottom of the list of ingredients. Of course I stopped using it when she was visiting (and, by the way, she never had a migraine while she was a house guest at our home). But still, you have to think that a little chocolate got through. And a good thing that. I don't think there are many syndromes worse than chocolate deficiency. Can make a person cranky, and sometimes even downright miserable.
OK, to be fair about this, it's not like this was a real food allergy that could cause death from anaphylactic shock. I mean, she avoided chocolate like the plague, but she still got migraines. And those of us jumping through her anti-chocolate hoop got a few headaches of our own. But I am a dutiful sister, and so this is what I often made for her, beginning way back when I was in elementary school. It may have helped me get my cooking badge in Girl Scouts. I certainly made enough batches of it during that time.
Butterscotch Brownies
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup light brown sugar
1 egg
3/4 cup flour, unsifted
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup coarsely chopped pecans (optional)
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
Melt butter over low heat. Remove from heat, add sugar,and stir until blended. Cool. Add egg, mixing well. Stir in dry ingredients, then vanilla and nuts (if using).
Spread into a well-oiled eight-inch square or 5x7-inch pan.
Bake approximately 20 minutes.
You can, of course, frost these. Chocolate frosting would be pretty nifty, as would adding mini-chocolate chips to the batter. But traditionally these are prepared sans chocolate. I'm such a traditionalist, I would suggest that these go well with a glass of cold milk. And certainly a chaser of Mallomars couldn't hurt. 'Tis the season, after all, and thank you (especially you chocoholics -- you know who you are) for reading my blog.
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.