Tag Archives: rickandkathy.com

Cooks Illustrated Corn Muffins with Spelt

Rick woke up this morning with a hankering for corn muffins (Cook’s Illustrated recipes—free!—below) and a first-ever desire to bake them himself.

Rick, it turns out, is an excellent baker with an inborn understanding that the techniques and tools involved are just as important to producing fine results as are high quality ingredients and a tried-and-true recipe.

Great muffin tin recommended by Cook’s Illustrated? Check.
Best free range butter Broulim’s grocery store carries? Check.
World’s best corn muffin recipe from Baking Illustrated? Check.

12 foil baking cups? Whoops…

A dig through the baking cupboard revealed we only had 11 of the foil/paper combination type that I had actually bought by accident, and even then we only had six of the papers that nest inside the foil liners.

While this was Rick’s first muffin rodeo, I have been on the circuit for decades.

Out of a desire to both have my muffins and eat them too, I have always used the paper muffin tin liners so the darned things release in one piece and I don’t spend more time washing up than I did eating. However, Cook’s prep instructions specifically state: “Grease a standard muffin tin and set aside.”

What… no liners? I went to Cook’s online video on the subject which explained that they don’t like having to pick the paper off the muffins, and that the “lovely brown crust” stays on the paper and not in their mouths, which is where they apparently prefer it.

My experience has been that without the papers, the “lovely brown crust” often clings to the tin with a tenacity that takes several hours of soaking to discourage.

What to do?! Go with decades of my own muffin experience or decades of America’s Test Kitchen muffin experience?

We decided on an “all of the above” approach, using six foil/paper combos, five straight foil cups, and one unlined hole as our “grease it and see what happens” experiment. (In one of their super-helpful sidebars in the cookbook, Cook’s recommends putting the muffin tin inside the dishwasher to apply cooking spray. Any overspray—and there WILL be overspray, which is why we rarely use it—will be washed away the next time you run the beast.)

As you can see above, both the “foil only” (right) and greased samples retained their delicious brown loveliness right where we wanted it. Cook’s was right about the paper, though: removing the paper also denuded the muffins of the crust.

Eureka! Going forward, our muffins will be hatched using the foil liners on their own. Winston, the paper-lovin’ poodle, will be given the paper portions to keep him amused and out of the kitchen while Rick is baking.

Enough with the camera already… time for breakfast!

Here’s the recipe, adapted from Baking Illustrated:

INGREDIENTS

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (10 ounces) (We substituted 2 cups of spelt: perfect!)
1 cup fine-ground, whole-grain yellow cornmeal (4 1/2 ounces) (Stone-ground whole cornmeal has a richer flavor than regular)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder (check the date: if older than a year, buy new stuff)
1 teaspoon baking soda (ditto above)
1/2 teaspoon table salt
2 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar (5 1/4 ounces)
8 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 stick), melted
3/4 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk

INSTRUCTIONS
1. Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 400 degrees. Spray standard muffin tin with nonstick cooking spray (see dishwasher tip above).

2. Whisk dry ingredients in medium bowl to combine; set aside.

3. Whisk eggs in second medium bowl until well combined and light-colored, about 20 seconds. Add sugar to eggs; whisk vigorously until thick and homogenous, about 30 seconds; add melted butter in 3 additions, whisking to combine after each addition. Add half the sour cream and half the milk and whisk to combine; whisk in remaining sour cream and milk until combined.

4. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients; mix gently with rubber spatula until batter is just combined and evenly moistened. Do not over-mix.

5. Using an ice cream scoop or large spoon, divide batter evenly among muffin cups, dropping it to form mound. Do not level or flatten surface of mounds.

6. Bake until muffins are light golden brown and skewer inserted into center of muffins comes out clean, about 18 minutes, rotating muffin tin from front to back halfway through baking time. Cool muffins in tin 5 minutes; invert muffins onto wire rack, stand muffins upright, cool 5 minutes longer, take a bajillion photos, but remember to stop in time to serve these puppies while they’re still warm, preferably with fresh hot coffee, aged cheddar cheese, and a perfect Pink Lady apple.

How To Make Hand Warmers

This Saturday was the 2nd annual Teton Valley Great Snow Fest. This is predominantly a spectator event featuring that cherished winter pastime, the ultimate in chilly fun amongst steaming horse buns, skijoring.

Last year, while my soul was cheered by the thundering hooves, the Olympian focus of the skiers, and the tribal whoops of the enthusiastic crowd, my fingers and toes ’bout froze to death.

I hate having cold hands. It makes me cranky.

But I also hate feeling like a landfill-oblivious citified wussy who cracks open a pair of disposable hand heaters the moment my mittened digits cross the threshold from December to March.

Don’t get me wrong: products like the [easyazon-link asin=”B002O14BI0″ locale=”us”]Heat Factory hand and body warmers[/easyazon-link] are great if you need some extended-play external reinforcement for a blood flow that just isn’t up to the job. In fact, there are apparently even commercially available [easyazon-link asin=”B00A6O0QB8″ locale=”us”]reusable versions[/easyazon-link] that would at least alleviate the landfill guilt, but I only found out about those in the last five minutes, not two weeks ago when I made my own.

I think I’ll call them “Sarah’s Mitten Steamer Buns,” in honor of a temporarily wounded ski-warrier friend who reminded me that warm rice in a sock makes a great impromptu heat pack.

That, plus the photo above is the only one taken for this post that didn’t pose an eerie resemblance to a neat offering of steaming horse pucky. This would not be an issue, I imagine, if you chose a different color sock.

Visual aesthetics aside, if you put them into the microwave on high for about 30 seconds each, and then place each HOT lump into your mitten or gloves, they’ll steam like specialty spa treats for the duration of a 45-minute walk and keep your fingies all warm and happy and smelling like lovely toasted brown rice, unless you want to mix a tablespoon of dried lavender into the rice and massage a generous dollop of good moisturizing cream into your hands before heading out, in which case your hands will emerge like you’ve just spent $30 on a high-end manicure.

Here’s how:

Take a pair of clean “thicker” hose (I used old “trouser sock” knee-high thingies that will never grace these liberated calves and tootsies again) and cut into 7-inch tubes.

(Note to anyone not familiar with the term “knee-highs”: it’s important to use a fabric half-way between [easyazon-link asin=”B003CMYT8W” locale=”us”]Carhartt men’s extremes cold weather boot socks[/easyazon-link] and a woman’s 10 denier * [easyazon-link asin=”B008GPUNTE” locale=”us”]summer pantyhose[/easyazon-link]. Something thick enough not to succumb in total lameness to the pressure of a grain of rice , yet thin enough to permit a decently small knot diameter.

Tie a knot in one end as close to the end of the fabric as you can, making sure that it is a completely sealed egress for wayward grains bent on going AWOL.

Cut off any excess fabric from the end of the knot.

Put 1/4 c. of brown rice into the sealed end of the tube, adding the lavender mentioned above if you care about such things.

Tie a knot in the other end.

Congratulate yourself on being so handy, toss your new wee homemade reusable hand warmers into the microwave for 30 seconds each, pop them into your mittens, moisturize, and then get out and enjoy the snow!

* According to Wikipedia: “Denier (pron.: /ˈdɛnjər/) or den is a unit of measure for the linear mass density of fibers. It is defined as the mass in grams per 9,000 meters. The denier is based on a natural standard—i.e., a single strand of silk is approximately one denier. A 9,000-meter strand of silk weighs about one gram.” And now you know why 10 denier pantyhose run merely by rubbing up against legs sporting a two-day old shave.

Are You A Gardener?

By virtue of proximity, my camera of choice often turns out to be my phone.

I rarely upload those images to my computer, relegating them instead to the category of a quickie “upload to Facebook” or “text to loved one.” They’re the point-and-shoot touchstones of my life, short hand for “Here’s what I’m up to right now,” or “Can you believe this?!”

They aren’t usually moments that inspire me to run for either of the Nikons, and without my phone sitting nearby (which it often isn’t, as those who would like to chat already know), the images wouldn’t exist. Also, I don’t normally consider the subjects blog worthy, so for the most part, the images live a quiet life in the photo folder on my phone.

This is why I have a small, almost forgotten archive of a wonderful summer that wouldn’t have seen the light of a post had it not been for settling in, wine in hand, on the north porch on Tuesday for a phone call that went unanswered, and the epiphany I had had an hour earlier that, yes, I actually am a gardener.

I have the laundry issues to prove it.

The story, nutshelled:

A few weeks ago, a woman asked me, “Are you a gardener?” I fumbled and bludgeoned my way through an answer, stumped in the moment by the myriad unclear specifications inherent in the question.

Do I grow all–or any–of our household vegetables? (Yes, until early in the season a week-end camping trip nuked all the tomato plants that hadn’t been sufficiently hardened for the heat.)
Is my iris bed pristine? (No: there was so much inexplicable lovely grass there this year, it looked like I had carefully planted and lovingly watered it.)
Do I have ANY idea at all what we’re doing with the placement, pruning, or pollinating of the nine fruit trees we planted in our Hardiness Zone 3 environment this year? (Nope… basically just winging it here, with the occasional mad dash to Wikipedia to find out what we should have done six-weeks earlier.)

Clearly, as ranked by depth of knowledge or by comparison to the accomplishments of others, I am not a gardener.

However, as I knelt in in the cool dirt of the iris bed this week, yanking out the dried leaves of this season’s glorious offerings, marveling at the lumpy brown root system that produces such spectacular beauties year after year, I felt connected to that miracle in a profoundly satisfying way. I realized that for me, the answer to her question lies exactly there.

Yes, I am a gardener, because there’s a specific part of me that’s more alive, grateful, and invigorated when I’m doing it than when I’m not. When my hands are in dirt or are wrapped around clippers pruning an ancient lilac tree, doing my small bit to help amazing things grow, my soul hums to a tune I can’t hear in any other place in my world.

I now know the answer to a bunch of other questions as well, such as:

“Are you a writer?”
“A photographer?”
“A baker? Musician? Dancer? Runner?”

Yes. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

I wanted to remember that concept, and this blog is a great way for me to chronicle such things. It’s just that I didn’t have a camera of any kind on hand for the moment it occurred to me, and for better or worse, the rule around here seems to be: no photo, no post. But then I found myself sitting in the late afternoon sun with a Big New Idea, stains on my jeans, and a little multifunction camera in my hand.

One mondo upload of forgotten iPhone images and some encouraging nudges from readers (“Have you died or what?!!”) later, I’m planning a daily blog posting this week, each featuring one or two of these touchstones, and the ideas and stories they contain.

And yes, I’m also a blogger, again.

Identity Issues

November 20, 2011, was the first time I had downloaded my boarding pass onto my iPhone, and I was feeling like one of the cool kids as I walked up to the TSA podium in Jackson Hole, iPhone and California driver’s license in hand. I had an Ellen DeGeneres “I’m too cool for my boarding pass” bounce to my step.

The TSA lady looked at my license and said, “Whoa! What happened to all your hair? And I see it used to be a different color, ha ha.”

I ha-ha’d back. When the TSA is in a jokey mood, you’re better off chortling along with ’em than bristling at the suggestion that you maybe had aged a bit in the ten years since the photo had been taken.

“Hmm…,” she mused as her forehead slowly converged into a knot. She pulled the card closer to her face for a more official scrutinization.

“This says you are a male.”

To say I was surprised doesn’t quite cover it.

I’ve had that license for over 10 years, but because I’m a squeaky clean law-abiding guest in this country (plus, I’m lucky), I have never been pulled over by the police. And since I have been traveling on my Canadian passport for all those years, none of TSA lady’s colleagues-in-arms had noticed the “M” where the “F” should have been. However, as my current Canadian passport is soon to expire, it was somewhere afloat on the international sea of red tape between the Victor, ID post office and my home and native land at the time of my humiliation.

By the time I recovered my lower jaw from the cold tile floor of the Jackson Hole airport, a supervisor had been summoned and “the situation” explained.

“Do you have any other form of picture ID with your current address on it?”

Oh. Crap.

Rick and I had just moved to Teton Valley as full-time residents the month earlier. Part of the deal of being in the USA on a green card is that when you move, you are obliged to let Immigration Services know your new address within 10 days of moving. Did I mention I’m a law-abider? I had contacted the INS with my new address, but so far, the only photo ID I had to offer was my now completely discredited California driver’s license showing my old California address. I didn’t have so much as 6-month dentist check-up reminder with my new address on me.

As the intricacies of my dilemma washed over me, I remembered that I have conscientiously carried my green card with me everywhere I’ve gone since receiving it, as required by the INS. It was in my purse, which was tucked neatly inside my suitcase so as not to break the “only two carry-on items allowed” rule. (See!! TOTALLY law abiding. Mostly.) I unzipped my suitcase, noticing the long line-up of impatient travelers growing behind me waiting to get through security.

Loupe jammed into eye socket, the supervisor peered with intense focus into the teensy script that is apparently invisibly crammed onto the front of the green card (which is actually white, FYI).
“It says here that your birthdate is January 16, 1959. Okay, that matches, and it says you are female, so you’ve got that going for ya. But we’re going to have to put in a quick call to Immigration Services just to be sure. They’ll ask me a few questions which I’ll relay to you to answer. Would you mind stepping over here, please?”

I immediately lost all ability to remember my mother’s maiden name, what year I graduated from university, and how many children I have. Irrational panic tends to have this effect on me.

And I forgot my suitcase was still open.

In my adrenalin-assisted scurry to get-the-hell-out-of-everyone’s-way, I grabbed my bag, flipping it neatly over to dump the entire contents upside down in a disorderly heap directly in front of the podium. I stared into a spreading layer of intensely personal undergarments, grooming aids, cosmetics, and all the other “tricks ‘o the trade” that fifty-something women use to combat hormonal challenges, fading hair pigment, gravity, etc.

eBags “Anti-Embarrassment” Packing Cubes

The only positive thing I can say about that particular two minutes of my life was that the line up behind me simultaneously took pity by averting their eyes, finding an immediate need to check their email on their phones, looking for dirt under their fingernails, etc. And aside from me, the only other person intensely interested in the contents of my bag was the TSA lady as she spoke to Immigration Services.

And thus the tide began to turn.

“No, no… no other alarm bells. In fact, there is mounting evidence that she probably is a woman, after all. DMV clerical error. Sorry to trouble you. Buh-bye.”

P.S.

Fifteen days later, and I’m now officially a female again… for at least 30 days until my permanent card comes in the mail. And this time, I’ll be checking.

Tavernier Retreat

If you’ve been treated to a delightful retreat and blog about it, and then others tweet about your post and still others send the message along to their own followers, does that count as retreating or retrweeting?

We live in complicated times.

And that’s why the opportunity for us to stay for a week in late August in Rick and Dana’s new little cottage in Tavernier, Florida, was so incredibly welcomed.

This summer, the Sordahls took an 80-year old getaway and converted it into a delicious vision of gracious space, enviable green economy of scale, and gentle generosity that seems to be uniquely theirs to employ on the planet.

Fortunately for Rick and me, they offered it to us at exactly the time in our life when we really needed grace, space, gentleness, and evidence of generosity in the world.

We needed a runway to visualize a new future for ourselves. And there’s nothing like nowhere to be and two rocking chairs on a porch with an ocean view to get some life direction thinking done.

The ocean front 25 yards away is the real thing. There’s no shipped-in sandy beach, no tiki bar, or no resort-style handsome pool boy with fresh towels and a margarita anywhere in sight, unless you count Rick, which I most certainly do.

While he never actually schlepped towels to the waterfront…

… Rick did bring his guitar down to the little bench and serenaded me and our new friend with beautiful acoustic Brazilian jazz.

Others hung out to enjoy the music, too.

It’s a genuine neighborhood, complete with kids who are allowed to ride their bikes to the waterfront, barefoot and helmet free.

There was something about this dude that helped nudge the life-reorienting thinking project in a most helpful direction.

If you could ride anywhere you wanted, barefoot and with the wind blowing through your bean shave, where would you go? This seemed like the right kind of place and time to ask such a question.

The delightful cottage itself was also the perfect host for this line of thought.

Dana brings an exquisite touch of “just right” to every space she engages. Somehow in an area of about 700 sq. ft, there wasn’t one necessary thing missing…

… yet she left room to breathe and imagine and rest.

Not a bad idea for a living space, or a life, either, for that matter.

Everything was clean and crisp, yet warm and even whimsical. It’s a place where you can dream of starting over. Or starting something new. Or just plain starting.

Details, baby… The details matter.

Touches of humanity and humor are critical in both a living space and a life, so getting them right is important. The goal for both is no clutter, yet something rich in personality and the intention to enjoy the ride.

These are some keys. They are Florida keys.

Get it?

Everywhere you looked, the message was, “Take a moment and appreciate the color, texture, and thoughtful design of this small space that you’re living in, right now.”

Make your inside align with your outside. Or maybe it’s the other way around. In either case, inside/outside harmony is important.

Let yourself be distracted by apparently unrelated input and stimulus. This is an important ingredient in productive creativity: making connections between previously unconnected ideas.

Innovative re-use of previously cherished concepts, passions, lessons learned, and parasols help define a new space…

… and new ways of dressing up functional necessities make the whole thing fresh and full of life.

Be where you are…

… and love those you’re with in the best way you know how.

Bring the old worth keeping into the new worth creating…

… and take delight in the unexpected explosions of light that splash into previously under-appreciated corners.

We woke up to this little ray of “Hi!-How-are-ya?!” every morning we were there.

Don’t be afraid of the wildlife you encounter along the way. Most of the time, it’s pretty innocent and often wildly entertaining.

I was surprised to learn that these little critters can hop up stairs.

These, on the other hand, didn’t hop anywhere because they’re ceramic or concrete or plasticine or something. Dana put them there, just for fun. I didn’t even notice them until the day we were leaving.
Another lesson learned: keep your eyes peeled along the way. There is always more to take delight in than you initially think.

Finally, when setting a new direction for your life, wear orange and flounce like you mean it.

Thanks, Rick and Dana.

Noah and Winston

See how adorable I am? Peaceful… calm… patient?

Look at me… the jumbo lamby-kins on the right. I have that lovely Doris Day vaseline-on-the-lens glow, don’t I?

Ignore the little dude with the four teeth and fresh green apple.
Yeah, okay… he IS a hunky punkin. Waddever. His greatest asset, as far as I can figure it out, is that he generally has some leftover yummy organic something or other out in plain sight on his person.

Can I have a lick?
Because I think I’d like apple juice, if someone would just give me a chance.

TOES! Such beautiful tootsies, and sometimes one discovers a morsel or two tucked away there, too. I think he stashes them for a snack later in the day, just in case.

In addition to being tasty, the kid’s an okay dancer.
You just have to get him started, and before you can holler “Buddha Baby!”…

… he’s hokey-pokeying like Michael Jackson himself.

I do enjoy his company, though. My size sometimes intimidates old ladies and little kids, but this one has some street mojo going on. He knows a serious “bring it!” attitude can compensate for a lot of weight difference.
Plus, he’s got a wooden train piece, and he’s not afraid to use it.

This is a lot easier to pull off, of course, when you have reliable air cover.

Ha! Did you see that? I scooped the vanilla yogurt puff crumb right offa there in the millisecond she was pulling his sleeve up.
Frankly, I can’t taste the difference between the organic and the conventional ones, myself.