Hello! With this, our latest favorite and most photo-worthy eats, I thought I’d give you a little behind the scenes action. Quite frequently, if not every time, I set food on the dining table to snap a photo, this is what our intrepid pooch does. A longing look and gentle sniff, with the great hope of getting a bite or two.

This was leftover Christmas ham made into a delectable savory bread pudding. All the stars.

A batch of focaccia made to accompany a delicious fettucini alfredo, with seared scallops. The tops…

Last year, in keeping with my love for all things New Mexico, including wonderful foodways, I bought the Big Book of Hatch Chile. This was my first time making their red chile, which had such amazing flavor, and super easy, too! The tortillas are also homemade, but from Rick Martinez, whose Mi Cocina cookbook is also pretty darn fabulous.

In another effort to reduce our environmental footprint, we traded our gas stove, which had several annoying quirks I won’t get into, and generated a lot of indoor air pollution, with an induction range. There’s been quite the learning curve with the cooktop: heating VERY quickly, boiling water ridiculously fast, burning an item or two, but we are getting there, and could not be more pleased, overall. The oven part, which these chocolate chip cookies serve as testament, bakes quite perfectly and evenly!

Another oven success, a dutch baby! Look at the steam go… I made a sauce with pears, and Greg did a fine bacon frying job. Happy, happy!

A foray into Japanese cuisine, with an udon dish. We had no idea what to expect and found it somewhat wanting. That said, it was almost there. I’ve added notes and will make corrections next time.

Chickpeas stewed in onion, golden raisins, and Major Grey chutney, with a generous sprinkles of cilantro, pickled red onions, fresh jalapeno slices, and feta cheese. A lovely belly warmer on a freezing winter day.

Finally, a story at the end. While on our honeymoon, very many moons ago, we spent several days with a friend at her Grandmother’s home outside Helsinki. It was high summer, with very, very long days of the most exquisite light. We slept in the summer house, a basic, yet delightful bed in a shed, just steps across the garden. There were long days adventuring, nibbling currants in the garden, being introduced to Moomins via a day at Moominworld, buying two adorable, and still much cherished mugs depicting their adventures, unwinding (and very much getting hooked) in our first sauna, and traipsing around the city at all hours, including the farmer’s market along the waterfront on the Gulf of Finland.

As instructed by Grandmother Hanna, we bought new potatoes and onions, to which Greg and I thought, okay, fine. She prepared them for some lunch or dinner, looking similar to the photo above, only with golden potatoes of very round proportions, and the same generous puddle of butter. Not expecting much besides sustenance, Greg and I tucked in to the most truly amazing potatoes of our life. So creamy! So buttery! And that nice contrasting snap of barely cooked onion! How did they taste so special when all she did was boil them?! Initially, and for many years, we thought we hadn’t found the right potato. But after many tries, with truly great taters, we realized there had to be more to it.

After more than thirty years, I FINALLY found out! In another Libby library scroll, I found a New England cookbook by Sarah Leah Chase, an astounding 300 recipe tome, with a recipe for boiled potatoes. My ears perked up as I read the description of bites of ridiculously creamy vegetable glory, hearkening back to that wonderful summer meal. It sounded like it might just be the secret to Grandmother Hanna’s. And it was! Can you guess? Boiling two pounds of small potatoes, like fingerlings or new, or with even greater luck, Finn Golds, in six cups of water and a bananas six tablespoons of sea salt (the recipe calls for kosher, but I made adjustments). What a thrill to take that first very special bite. Exactly the same texture and wonderfully good flavor and a fabulous trip down memory lane. Oh, happy eating!

Mountains

Often it isn’t the mountains ahead that wear you out, it’s the little pebble in your shoe.

Muhammad Ali

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Scenery

I am very sad to report that it is far too early in the season for me to be missing green, but here I am. There is a little bit of it in the background in the form of a yucca, at least.

These poor burst flower pods are doing their darndest beige fabulous, too. What great texture!

My cousin moved into a new place quite a while back, and our schedules finally aligned for a visit! I failed to bring my camera upstairs, and she is not fond of having her picture taken, so just know we were happy, ate quite well, including a cake my mom made, and had a beautiful drive home!

More fabulous beige…

In those moments when the green escapse me, and my heart wanders on the sad side about it, all I need to do is gaze upon a view like this one. Utterly glorious and heart lifting! I truly love you, Colorado.

Watch the sun on the way down, down, down.

It began in 2024, with a highly anticipated visit with friends. Upon arriving at the house, one of our hosts, in a super festive mood, eagerly showed me a new purchase, and actually said these words, “I hope this makes you jealous.” My body froze in shock (why would anyone say this?!), and I quickly changed the subject. Later, in the warm intimacy of a moving vehicle, the two of us chatting convivially, more horrible words were uttered.

Before I say what they were, I have two thoughts/truths to convey. The first is a defense mechanism recently “invented” by my own person, but it may be actual gospel elsewhere, and I had yet to encounter it. Anyway, it goes like this: whenever I feel hurt by another, I mentally remove myself, repeat what was said aloud, and hear it as a stranger would, like eavesdropping. How do I react now?

The second relates to my marriage with Greg. Since we chose not to have kids, our relationship is our beloved child. It is nearly 35 years old and looked upon reverentially. It is sometimes petulant, oftentimes silly, other times awkward, and mostly quite loving, affectionate, and thoughtful. Without the distraction of child rearing, we have put our all into its cultivation. We have had lengthy discussions on what is best for it and us. It is well oiled, well loved, well considered. No detail has been left to chance, really. It works.

So, driving along, me feeling warm and fuzzy, with what I thought was the best company, I was verbally assaulted. My friend, in what I can only assume was, as I am not a mind reader, a fervent zeal to demonstrate her moral superiority over a different, lesser woman of close relation, forgot who she was with (unemployed me), and uttered a fierce pride in never “using” her partner, for “his” insurance. “At least I never did THAT.”

For context, when I was very young and imagined my life, it was not with a man, but as an independent woman, with a great job, in a fabulously cozy and well decorated home. What a crazy surprise to find a perfect partner so young (19!), and the homes I imagined soon thereafter. A greater surprise, more so anguish, was at not being gainfully employed, or even, to be honest, employable, for the better part of the last two decades.

After much soul searching, Greg and I made peace with it. Him more than me, truth be told, but with a great partnership, comes great understanding. It is now our shared pain, and when I am down about it, our shitty burden. OURS. No one else has dominion over it. We have mutually worked our way in, up, down, and around it.

That being said, this has not prevented me from having deep shame on the subject. No surprise, guess how horribly I was stricken upon hearing her words?! For nearly a year (!!), I lingered silently over them, sometimes defeated, others positively riled. Was I really a user? Did Greg feel the same? One day, he made mention of his tiring of our friend’s frequent caustic remarks on all manner of subjects, as she rarely had an unexpressed thought, however rude or unkind.

I saw my opening, screwed up my courage, and came to my eavesdropping exercise. We were now collectively sad and angry. Who on earth declares such things to a supposedly dear friend? So, we ruminated, for days and days and days, and wrote the kindest letter we could, leaving the friendship.

It was, wildly, not the last. After a horrifyingly painful few days in the company of another “friend,” aided by the eavesdropping tool, we felt yet more disbelief at how easy it seemed for people we dearly loved, for decades, to treat us so badly. And not for the first time.

We came to realize many things. First, these friendships were forged as young adults, when our values and beliefs were less solid, and unkindness wasn’t the deal breaker it is today. Second, when we lived in Portland (more than ten years ago!), and only encountered them every few years, their insensitive idiosyncrasies were less visible, and we didn’t truly know who they were. If we met them now, they would remain strangers. Finally, we noted, in small part, the fault was ours, for not setting better boundaries. “I don’t like that. Please stop.” You can bet your sweet bottom that future friends will know better where we stand.

In a resolution, of sorts, I have begun watercolor painting again. I first tried my hand at it in college, before meeting Greg (a very long time ago!), and mostly enjoyed it, but never got into the habit.

This happened again and again, buying supplies, doing a few paintings here and there, but never really establishing a practice. After making what I hope to be a final peace with my retirement status and a serious lack of reading material I care to actually finish, I needed a way out of my chitty-chattery head.

As I had a drawer full of brushes, a little paper, and plenty of paint, I gave it an initial whirl with the apple. Contented, I landed on making a few small paintings each week, bought more paper and some brushes for small, fine details, as I am not interested in large creations. I am truly happy to report my brain is delighted with the escape from overthinking!

This is nearly everything I’ve made, minus one painting for my cousin, as a housewarming gift, which she seemed to like, and pleased my ego. How about that?!

I am mostly satisfied, and will likely give the majority away, the mushroom already promised to someone who loves them. The church (Santo Tomas in Abiquiu) is part of a series I took pictures for last March in New Mexico, of places my Native and Mexican ancestors were baptised, as far back as the 1700s. I hope to frame and hang them in the living room. I am kind of excited and, fingers crossed, they turn out as I see them in my head. This one needs some more background, and I forgot some exterior lights, so I will keep at it.

Cheers!

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