Someone’s Mum’s Cinnamon Buns
On November 7, 2015 by Speranza
I don’t care for the commercial grade, overly hefty cinnamon buns.
It’s what my mum would call “too much of a muchness.”
It’s just not okay to me when a bun looks as though it’s been carved away in the style of a Chicago Deep Dish pizza; it’s too much on the plate, the icing texture is reminiscent of toothpaste and no matter how tantalizing the smell is at the time, ultimately, there will be disappointment and a broken plastic fork.
If you can relate to any of this, you will be very happy with the following recipe.
Balkan Beat Box
On November 6, 2015 by Speranza
If you have been reading this blog regularly I apologize for the abject misery I’ve been pumping out.
I’m just starting to emerge from a funk-of-no-name, the kind of misery that makes you feel desperate but you are not sure why : there have been a few things of course, not the least of which was the sudden and shocking death of one of my young, sweet Siamese cats. Her brother has been grieving loudly and hourly since, making those dark sonorous chest yowls usually associated with Tibetan monks. It’s a chilling heart-breaking sound and cannot be stopped with food or entreaties from those around him.
I will write about The Willow Cat in a later post but for now, it’s still too fresh.
Anyway how to pull out of a funk when one wakes up with tears in one’s eyes wondering how to get through the day?
No quick answers here but a visit to my past and recalling which (small) things have cheered me before is always helpful and a good starting point.
Hounds-Tooth
On November 1, 2015 by Speranza
A tiny slit of light creaks through the ill-fitting wardrobe door even after it clicks shut behind me. Under different circumstances to these I might feel self conscious, or perhaps unbalanced. But the pain of loss has driven me here, and I care nothing for such thoughts. The coat hangers move quickly under my touch whining the screech of steel on steel, till at last I find what I want. It slips around my shoulders easily, enveloping me in its scent and at once I breathe in a thousand memories. The smell of spearmint gum still lingers in the pocket, and the faint tang of old-fashioned shaving soap comes up to me from the warmth. This coat is a traditional hounds’ tooth tweed, but worn soft and the lining still glows cheerfully, a dull vermilion red like the inside of a magicians’ cloak.
Fear of Frying
On October 21, 2015 by Speranza
Like many people I’ve always had a cast iron fry pan in my repertoire but I only drag it out a few times a year for certain recipes and usually afterwards I am lamenting that I didn’t remember how badly it sticks and how I should have re-seasoned it. Then, I generally leave it out for a while to remind myself before finally getting tired of seeing it and back it goes to the dark side of the cupboard. This is a cycle as regular as the seasons yet like many things, I am ashamed to say that it seems less tiresome to slope into my car, drive to a store and purchase yet another non-stick pan once the current one starts getting that sun-burned skin going on in the middle. Disturbing! But lately I feel guilty and a bit queasy when I recall all those things about not having any kind of caged bird around if you use non-stick (how can THAT be okay?) and then there’s the entire health concern and environmental piece.
So, when I recently unearthed a truly ancient cast iron fry pan that had belonged to The General’s mother – the appearance of which was both endearing and alarming – I was inspired afresh to make things right.