Diet, Dessert and Dogs

*Or, This Is Not a President’s Choice Product**

*Or, See How Much I Want to Attend Eat, Write, Retreat  ?

[Voilà--homemade, veggie-based "beef" jerky.  Well, it looks like beef. . . ]

The other day, I was bemoaning the fact that there are a bunch of cool  blogger conferences coming up this spring—none of which I’m attending. Then I noticed a tweet for five (five!) scholarships to the upcoming Eat, Write, Retreat event. I was about to kick up my heels and dance a little jig when I noticed that the scholarships were sponsored by Canadian Beef.

Oops.

Pouting, I fired off a twitter retort: “Too bad you have to eat meat to qualify.” 

Well, couldn’t you have just knocked me over with a steak knife when I spied the following response: “not necessarily. . . . . Would love to see your entry !:)” 

I quickly re-read the contest rules and discovered that I could still enter by writing about a memory of Canadian Beef. And really, who better to write about “memories of beef” than the daughter of a butcher, someone who ate beef virtually every day of her childhood and adolescence—and who now lives with a meat-eater? Why, none other than moi, of course!

I just couldn’t resist. So here’s my “Best Memories of Beef from My Childhood” entry.

Hoping to see y’all at Eat, Write, Retreat!

* * * * * * * * * * * *  

[My dad and me, circa 2000, when he was 78.]

When I was a child, there was never any doubt about who was the boss in our family. With one disappointed glance, my father could cause my heart to ache for days. Conversely, he could also spark days of elation, my heart soaring, when I knew he was pleased with something I’d done. 

More than anything, my father was defined by the work he did. He spent six days a week at his little butcher shop on Jean Talon West in the Park Extension area of Montreal, leaving for the store long before we children even woke for school and returning after the rest of the family had finished our dinners. On the odd morning when I couldn’t sleep and the clinking of his coffee mug drew me in the direction of the kitchen, I’d stumble onto a scene of my dad, his windbreaker already zipped up, hunched over the kitchen table sipping his tea and snapping at his toast before he grabbed the lunch bag my mother had prepared and rushed out the door. 

On Thursdays and Fridays, when the store was open until 8:00 PM, my younger sister and I were often already in bed when he finally returned home.  The other nights, he’d arrive between 6:30 and 8:00 PM, his pant legs smeared with dried blood and the smell of sweat on his shirt, sawdust still clinging to his shoes. He’d go straight to the kitchen table, where my mother dished out the remnants of whatever we’d already eaten for dinner—a dried-up hamburger, veal chops, salmon patties and “potato boats,” or, if his stomach were acting up (as it often did when he felt stress), a bowl of rice and warm milk with honey.

I began to resent that my father never seemed to have much time for us kids when he was home. I learned at a young age that if I wanted to interact with him any day but Sunday, I had to see him at work. Since his store was en route between our house in St. Laurent and the Jean Talon Metro (in those days, the gateway to downtown shopping), my best friends Gemini I, Gemini II and I often dropped in at dad’s store on the way home after a day spent browsing at Simpsons, Eatons, and Ogilvie’s.  As eleven or twelve year-olds in those days, the hour-long bus and subway ride was a huge adventure, one our parents allowed without any 21st-Century angst, and a short pit stop at the butcher shop made the trip even more palatable in our minds.

[Jerky in the making: about halfway there.]

As soon as we pushed open the heavy glass door and the bell suspended above it announced our arrival, my father would stop what he was doing, wipe his palms on his apron and point in my direction.  “Ah, it’s Rick!” he’d declare, like an emcee calling out the team captain skating onto the ice at the Forum.  Then he began to crow.  He would boast to whomever was around—Mrs. Lubov (one of the rich customers) as she placed her weekend order; or Vasili, the owner of the Greek bakery down the way; or Joe, the hobo who always seemed to be sitting on the plastic stool in the corner no matter the day or time, as if he were a permanent store mascot in the window. “This is my middle daughter,” my father would say, “she’s going to be a Professor.” The customers nodded and smiled, the way parents do when their three year-old proffers an imaginary teacup. 

Within seconds, my friends and I were ushered to the back of the store behind the counter, between the freezer and wooden cutting block where the floor was cushioned with sawdust to absorb drips, grease and bloodstains from the meat. We knew the drill: we sat quietly on the old kitchen chairs against the wall until the store emptied out, whether it took 5, 10 or 25 minutes for my father to finish up with any customers who were waiting. Then he turned his attention to us.

“Okay, so what do you want to eat?” he’d ask with audible delight, as our eyes lit up with anticipation. He’d grab two Kaiser rolls from under the counter. Gemini I always asked for something unassuming like sliced turkey, but I’d go for my favorite, Montreal Smoked meat (made from Canadian Beef, of course). My father would slice the hunk of preternaturally pink flesh, its outside sheathed in a coating of slick black peppercorns softened by the smoking process, the thin sheets sliding out from beneath the swirling blade and onto his outstretched palm. With the rhythm of a dancer, he’d turn his hand over and slap each slice onto the open roll until he’d achieved a pile almost as thick as one of my school textbooks.  Then he’d march into the freezer and pull out the jar of mustard he kept there for his own lunches, smear the meat with the yellow topping, and replace the rest of the roll over it. 

[My dad on his 89th birthday, last year.]

The sandwiches were always too big for our gaping mouths no matter how wide we tried to open them, so we’d withdraw a few slices and eat them plain before turning back to the rest of the meal.  When we were done, if we were still hungry (and even if we weren’t), my father would treat each of us to a piece of karnatzel, the long, cigar-shaped, spicy salami that hung suspended from hooks above the meat counter, drying out in the air and sweating drops of pink-tinged oil on the ground beneath them.  With one snap of the thin log, we were each handed a hunk of the stuff to savor for another few minutes. The meat was crunchy, chewy and spicy, and I loved it back then.

With thanks and a pat on the back of the head, we headed out to the bus and the long ride home.

What I didn’t realize in those days, of course, was that my father’s absence at home grew from his desire to provide for his family, and in the store, he was expressing his love for me in the only way he knew how—by giving me food, the spoils of his labor.  When I arrived for my occasional visits at the shop, I offered him the chance not only to show me off to his customers, but also to show me how he spent his days making a living. 

Even though I don’t eat meat any more, I miss the times when I could drop in on my dad and observe him in his element; where he felt confident, efficient, capable and strong.  These days, he struggles to regain his former vigor as his body ages even while his mind remains sharp and vibrant.  I watch my elderly dad slowly shuffling across the hallway from bedroom to kitchen, where he hunches over the same kitchen table of my childhood, slowly cutting his dinner into small, manageable pieces. 

These days, beef is scarce on his own plate, too.  But the memories of those idyllic afternoons in the shop, when my father was still the boss of our house and king of the butcher shop, will forever remain in my heart. And with that memory, it still soars. 

[Wouldn't you just love a bite?] 

** For all you non-Ontario residents out there, the popular President’s Choice brand offers a line of sauces called “Memories Of. . . “

Last Year at this Time: Audacious Celebrity Stalking, Free Cookbooks, and Truffles

Two Years Ago: Anti-Candida Breakfasts: What Do You Eat?

Three Years Ago: How I Spent My Spring Vacation

The expression, “it’s complicated” is often enough to make the blood drain from my face and my forehead break out in a cold sweat. 

For example:

Scene One: Ricki and her then-boyfriend, Rocker Guy (he of the black leather pants) at Rocker Guy’s apartment, shortly after Ricki stumbles upon RG sitting a little too close to a buxom woman in a restaurant booth.

Ricki: So, who was that woman you were canoodling with?

Rocker Guy (smooth as rayon-polyethylene-nylon blend faux silk): Um, er, well. . .  it’s complicated.

Scene Two: Ricki snuggles up to the HH, who is reclining on the couch and has been watching a movie for the past fifteen minutes. 

Ricki: So, what did I miss?

HH: I can’t really summarize it for you at this point–you’ve just missed too much.  It’s complicated.

Scene Three: Ricki is on the telephone with the customer service rep at Bosch (the company that made her gas range) asking about why, when she has a five-year warranty and the range is only three months old and has already had four repairs to a convection fan that is still working incorrectly, she can’t get a refund or a new oven.

Ricki:  So, if I have a full warranty with money-back guarantee, and my oven refuses to work no matter how many times you repair it, why can’t I get my money back?

Rep: Well, it’s a little more complicated than that. . .

Clearly, not the most auspicious phrase in my life. (And just in case you’re wondering, Rocker Guy was, indeed, cheating with that woman; the HH never did explain Memento to me; and I am still using the same, convection-less, oven–four years later).

But when it comes to food and cooking, “it’s complicated” doesn’t strike me as the least bit intimidating–in fact, it doesn’t phase me at all. I can summarize the same recipe with both adjectives, ”complicated” and “simple” simultaneously.

For example, a crisp, green, veggie-rich salad can be both complicated and easy at the same time.  It may take a lot of space on the counter, a cutting board, sharp knife and some dexterity to create a multi-veggie, multicolored salad, but the actual work involved is fairly simple: peel the carrots, grate the beet, slice the tomato, tear up the greens. Voilà!–delicious, textured, flavorful salad.

Similarly, mixing up something like this Kale and Potato Lasagna may require a complicated symphony of individual components (making the sauce, cooking the filling, etc), but once you’ve got the parts together, it’s a simple matter of layering ingredients and baking the whole shebang while you go ahead and attend to something else.  Easy peasy!

Have you ever seeded a pomegranate?  It’s a little complicated, but not in the least difficult.  All you need is a sharp knife, a big bowl of water, skimming action, and a colander or slotted spoon.  The reward is a bowlful of glistening, plump arils, providing an abundance of ruby, juice-filled pearls, which, when popped in your mouth, squirt their sublime liquid like those childhood wax pop bottles filled with sweet syrup.

I file these Potato Boats (more commonly referred to as “twice baked potatoes”) in that same category of “complicated, yet simple.” Potato Boats (as my mom called them) were an end-of-week tradition in our house.  Every Friday for supper my mother would serve baked potatoes with the flesh scooped out, then mashed with either sour cream and butter or milk and butter, returned to the skins and re-baked.  My mother always topped ours with neon orange shards of grated Kraft Cheese slices, which, when melted, eerily resembled the finish on those plastic Halloween pumpkins that kids tote around for trick or treating.  The meal was always rounded out with salmon patties, served up with a big dollop of ketchup.

My version of the childhood favorite is significantly less processed and a bit more elegant, filled with “sour cream” and herb mashed potatoes and omitting the tacky orange topper.  With a creamy, slightly tangy filling punctuated by flecks of your favorite fresh herbs, these potatoes would be suitable for a holiday meal or a side dish at a dinner party.  The HH and I enjoyed them served with a prototype of my next nut roast (I’ve been experimenting in honor of Johanna’s latest Neb at Nutroast event) and the HH was entirely smitten. Knowing his penchant for all things “cheese,” I inquired if he wanted his topped with some melted cheddar, but he said he thought they didn’t need it.  (Wheeeee!)

The recipe does require a bit of advance preparation, soaking the nuts and starting the “sour cream” in the morning, while the potatoes themselves need enough time to bake until very tender before you scoop out their insides. But once the ingredients are assembled, the final preparation is remarkably simple. 

I was even able to freeze the two leftover halves, which stood up well when reheated.  When I served the remainder of the nutroast to the HH for dinner a few days later, he requested the last of the Potato Boats alongside it.

Ricki: Um, there are no more potato boats.

HH: But didn’t you put two of them in the freezer just a couple of days ago? 

Ricki: Yes.

HH: So, what happened to them?

Ricki : Well, it’s complicated. . .

With the accent on herbs in these babies, I thought this would be a great submission to Weekend Herb Blogging, the weekly event founded by Kalyn of Kalyn’s Kitchen and now being run by Haalo of Cook Anything.  I haven’t participated in a long time, so I’m glad to be submitting this recipe this time round! This week the event is hosted by one of my favorite bloggers, Susan of The Well-Seasoned Cook.   I’m also submitting this to Amy’s weekly Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays (event though these do taste *very* indulgent!).

Last Year at this Time: Eating My Words: Sandwich with Raw “Egg” Salad

Two Years Ago: Maple Mania II: Maple Cupcakes with Maple Buttercream (not ACD friendly; frosting is gluten free)

Three Years Ago: The Best Laid Plans [including cute dog pics!]

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

What?? It’s winter?

Again??

Okay, Mother Nature, this is really getting old.  I mean, we’ve been tortured by  suffering with  enduring  tolerating winter since October 21, 2010 (should I feel guilty that that’s my birthday?).  Time for some warmer temps, dry streets, green buds poking their happy noses out of the ground.  Time for some plus-size temperatures (not to be confused with plus-size clothing, about which I wouldn’t be too happy). Time for the sun to persist through post-dinnertime, cajoling us to peel off our scarves, gloves, overcoats. 

Time for SPRING, already!

But okay, since we’re expecting upwards of 15 cm (6 inches) of snow today, and since the temperatures are -5C (23 F) instead of the seasonal +6C (43 F) today, I will treat you to this last bowl of winter stew for the season.

You know how, sometimes, you make serendipitous discoveries at the least expected times? I’m not talking about the kind of discovery where you perchance leave a beaker of staphylococci bacteria lying around the lab and then, lo and behold, a day later you have. . . pennicilin!  Nor the kind where you decide to cut your business trip short because you miss your hubby, hurry home, then barge in on said hubby and his secretary in flagrante delicto.  And certainly not the kind where a bunch of science nerds all decide at the same time, “Hey! I think there’s an extra planet up there! Who knew?” 

No, those are all examples of monumental discoveries–and I’m not talking about those.

I’m referring to the little quotidien discoveries that can happen to anyone, the types that add a little burst of excitement to your otherwise mundane day. Like when you pull out your spring blazer for the first time after a long winter (and how I dream of that day) and find an unexpected $20 bill inside the pocket.  Or when you’re packing up the house for a move to your new place and (as happened to the HH and me when we moved to our current place) you reach to grab the last mug in the cupboard and come across that hand-knit tea cozy you received as a Christmas present from your first boyfriend’s mother, 25 years ago–the one you had been certain was lost forever.  That’s the kind of everyday discovery that makes you smile, that adds a little bit of joy to the day.

I experienced one of those happy discoveries this past week.  You see, I had completely forgotten about my recipe for Chickpea and Potato Stew with Tomatoes, a recipe I cooked up almost every week throughout my 20s and 30s.  As a newbie cook, I came across the original recipe in an old Canadian Living Magazine, and it couldn’t be simpler.  It was the perfect dish for a single vegan just learning to cook: everyday ingredients, simple preparation, no special tools or equipment required.  The components came together quickly, then took care of themselves as they simmered quietly in a corner while you went about your business for 30 minutes or so.  Afterward, they greeted you with a robust, warming, perfectly seasoned stew containing a wonderful balance of protein, carbs, and sauciness.

How had I forgotten all about this stew?  It came back to me after we received a five-pound (2 kg) sack of potatoes in our organic produce box last week.  What to do with them all? And that’s when I remembered. I pulled out my “Veg Main Meals” recipe folder from the bookcase and began to leaf through the hundreds of pages in it, each one clipped from a magazine or newspaper, or printed from a website or blog.

Forty minutes later, I still hadn’t found the recipe.  I knew it was there, somewhere–but another glance through the clippings still didn’t uncover it.  Determined, I decided to look for a similar base online, from which I could build a reasonable replica. A quick Google search–and up came dozens of similar recipes!

Okay, so maybe my old stew wasn’t unique.  But with the help of a good memory jog, I put this together.  At the last minute, I added some tahini–not in the original–to create a thicker, creamier sauce.  It worked beautifully, and produced a rich gravy that is perfect for sopping up with crusty bread (as the HH ate it) or ladling over cooked rice or quinoa.

I’m so happy to have rediscovered my old favorite–especially today, when a warming stew is perfectly in order to bid winter “adieu.”  I still have a feeling that the original recipe will show up some day, though–most likely, the next time we move.   

“Mum, you know we love those serendipitous discoveries, too.  Like, say, when you drop an extra treat under the kitchen table. Score!”

I’m also submitting this recipe to Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays weekly event as a healthier option to “regular” stews.

Last Year at this Time: Passover Coconut Macaroons (Gluten Free, Dairy Free, Sugar Free, ACD friendly)

Two Years Ago: Raw Raw for Spring! Crimson Salad with Pecans and Pumpkin Seeds

Three Years Ago: Spiced Carrot Gnocchi in a Creamy Sauce (not GF, sauce is ACD friendly)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

When I was growing up, “Chinese Food” meant gelatinous, hot pink chicken and pineapple balls, chop suey (bean sprouts, frozen peas and carrots and some white rice in soy sauce), and egg rolls as greasy as Elvis’s pompadour.  It wasn’t until my undergraduate years at the University of Windsor that I first tasted authentic Chinese food. 

I know, Windsor, Ontario doesn’t exactly strike one as the hub of all things Oriental.  In those days, though, Windsor was (and for all I know, may still be) the Canadian college with the largest percentage of Chinese students (at about 45%). Why?  There were many theories (such as “ it’s a great way to get into the States, being so close”; or “it has the lowest standard for English-as-a-second-language requirements”), but my favorite was “it’s the southernmost city in Canada (further south than its American cousin, Detroit), so when potential students consulted a map, they likely decided it must also be the warmest city and chose it before all others. 

(All I can say is, it’s been winter since the end of October.  So, how do you like Windsor now?)

Perhaps surprisingly, my entrée into the world of authentic Chinese dining was facilitated not by a Chinese person, but a native (Caucasian) Windsorite. 

RB, a fellow undergraduate English major, was much taller than I at 5 feet 7 inches (just over 170 cm) and had what we call “big-bones.” Yet she also somehow always struck me as fragile.  With impeccable posture, she trailed a mane of undulating, naturally auburn hair; and her skin was so pale, smooth and translucent it reminded me of my mom’s antique teacups.  While not classically “pretty,” RB was certainly uniquely attractive.  Even her voice, quiet and steady like a breeze in autumn, seemed too soft for the heft of her body.  When she spoke it was barely above a whisper.

But it wasn’t her physical attributes of which I was envious; it was her mind. You see,  RB was another protégé of my mentor, Dr. Ditsky, and he frequently called on her in class to “save us” when no one volunteered to answer his question (when he called on me for the same purpose, my cheeks usually flushed red and I stammered something unintelligible). But RB always rose to the challenge, fairly offering a lecture of her own on occasion. 

RB was, quite simply, brilliant.  Like, Bill Gates brilliant. Mozart brilliant.  Marilyn Vos Savant brilliant. A Beautiful Mind brilliant (well, without the encrypted magazine articles and hallucinatory FBI agents, of course).

I will never forget her final essay for our Faulkner course:  a 50-odd page treatise on “Deconstructing The Sound and the Fury: Parallels and Pedantry in Godel, Escher, Bach.”  Well, I, too, had purchased Godel, Escher, Bach out of curiosity (like the rest of the academic population in the 1980s) and could barely get through the first 10 pages (even that took me a couple of hours).  Yet here was RB, composing an entire essay (which, presumably, she actually understood!) that used it as a basis for comparison.

RB also had the ability to acquire information–particularly languages–as easily as I acquired cookbooks. She loved the fact that Windsor was an “international” city welcoming people from all over the world.  One day, she decided that she loved Chinese culture the most.  Within a couple of months, she was teaching herself Cantonese with the aid of tapes and a book.  I’d notice her hunched over a table in the cafeteria, madly scribbling little curlicues and pictograms across her notebooks.  She’d emit guttural sounds in the back of her throat as she walked by in the hallways.  After another couple of months, her gorgeous auburn hair had been shorn in a tight pageboy and dyed jet black.  If there had existed a counterpart to gender reassignment surgery called “Cultural Reassignment surgery,”her name would have been at the top of the list.

Eventually, RB married a man from Hong Kong whom she’d met at a dim sum restaurant.  (She was writing a postcard–in Chinese–to a friend as he walked by; he glanced at the card, asked, “Do you actually understand that stuff?” and when she nodded, he sat down to join her. Less than a year later they were married.) 

[It may not be a whole lotus bean inside, but it's still delicious.]

Given her affinity for all things Chinese, it’s no wonder that RB eventually took me to her favorite spot for Dim Sum.  Right there on Wyandotte Street, just steps from the university dormitory, was a fantastic dim sum restaurant. It was so authentic, in fact, that none of the servers really spoke English, and orders were given by patrons who wrote their choices (in Chinese) on little slips of paper.  Of course, RB was proficient in the language, so she served as translator and placed the order.

I won’t dwell on the meal itself, which involved various steamed buns, pan-fried dumplings, noodles and RB’s favorite–chicken feet. (The image of her sucking on their splayed, pointy tips will forever be branded in my memory).  But it was the dessert that proved to be a revelation.  That day was the first time I tried steamed lotus seed buns, and I ate them every time I could after that.  The white, spongey and barely sweet buns encased a whole lotus bean, cooked until soft and squishy.  Imagine, if you will, a medjool date that’s even softer and sweeter than normal, served slightly warm and caramelized–that’s what the lotus bean tasted like. I loved them instantly.  When I moved to Toronto with its three Chinatowns, I anticipated more of the same, and was sadly disappointed to learn that the buns made here, while tasty, contained red bean paste instead of lotus seeds.

Well, today’s SOS offering is my take on that pastry.  I had actually attempted a steamed bun first (based on this recipe–which, I later realized, is Japanese), but steaming instead of frying resulted in a mess of white and red goo, a little too reminiscent of the goo splattered all over Tommy Lee Jones when Will Smith shoots the alien at the end of Men in Black. Attempt number two involved actually frying the balls as directed–I was going to beg your forgiveness if they worked out–but those, alas, were also fairly gooey inside, very greasy on the outside, and clearly not orb-like. 

So, I went back to what I do better: cookies!  In keeping with the Asian theme, I used rice flour (two types) filled with red bean paste.  The cookie itself is crisp and light, while the dense paste inside provides a pleasant surprise with its textural contrast.  And while they’re not authentic, they were delicious. I bet even RB would approve.  

*********************************************

I’ve submitted this recipe to Amy’s weekly Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays event. Check out all the healthier recipes there!

Last Year at this Time: Warm Chickpea and Artichoke Salad

Two Years Ago: Blog break

Three Years Ago: Bittersweet Salad with Apples and Dandelion Greens (ACD Stage 2 and beyond–use lemon juice instead of orange)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Nobody loves dessert more than I do (well, except maybe in New Zealand, where they eat more ice cream per capita than anywhere else in the world. . . as I’ve said before, I really must move to the antipodes).  I’ve been known to eat dessert for breakfast, for snacks, for lunch, or for dinner.  I’ve had dessert at 3:00 AM; I’ve ordered dessert before dinner in a restaurant. I like dessert even more than nutroast (that’s saying a lot) and more than sweet potato (though I do often include the former in the latter).  And, in my younger years, there were times when I ate more than one dessert at a time (gasp!).

But even I was a little surprised to see that almost every submission for our SOS Stevia event this month was a dessert recipe (thanks, Alex, for breaking the streak). Like any other sweetener, stevia can be used in savory dishes, too.  Wherever you’d add a touch of sugar, or honey, or maple syrup, you can usually use stevia.  In fact, if you’ve been reading DDD for a while (or if you browse through the archives), you’ll probably note rather quickly that more than half my recipes tend to use this herbal sweetener in one way or another.  And so, just under the wire, I am going to submit this second SOS entry tonight.

For most of my adult life (and believe me, that’s a long time), I’ve thought of salad as “boring” or “bland.”  Perhaps it was due to the insipid, somewhat anemic lettuce and tomatoes (with a texture and flavor of raw potato) that are the only ones available during Ontario winters. Maybe it was that I associated salads with the constant dieting of my youth (and the lack of any gustatory pleasure during those episodes).  Or it may have been that my passion for dessert was so powerful as to outweigh any appreciation of vegetable matter during all those years (not likely, as that would have ruled out kale, and peas, and sweet potato, and every other veggie I like as well).

No, the real reason I was so meh on salads was my father.

You see, my dad eats salad Every. Single. Day.

That’s right: Every.

Single.

Day.

Not only does he eat salad Every. Single. Day.- -he also eats the exact same salad– Every.

Single.

Day. 

Are we getting bored yet? 

My dad’s idea of “salad” harks back to the 1950s or so, when my mother, like any good wife of her generation, first tossed together that mix to accompany the salmon patties she served for dinner.  The so-called “salad” consisted of a quarter of an iceberg lettuce, chopped (not torn) into bite-sized pieces; one third of a cucumber (peeled), sliced; half of a factory-farmed, barely blushing orb,(labelled a “tomato” in the grocery store), sliced; and a few slices of yellow onion scattered over top.  This mass of water and fiber was then topped with a spoonful of Miracle Whip, all stirred together, and eaten. And that is precisely what he has eaten as “salad” ever since.  And also–

Every.

Single.

Day.

No wonder I considered salad to be tasteless and dull–and steered clear for years, even after I lived on my own. 

After I moved to Toronto in the 1980s, I discovered the joys of raw leafy greens and other veggies, including many I had never eaten raw before that (kale, parsnip and–for the first time this very month–fennel, to name a few).  After an epiphany eating warm spinach salad in a Mason jar (all the rage at the old Mr. Greenjeans on Adelaide), I moved on to classic Caesar at Joe Allen’s (tossed together in a huge wooden bowl right beside your table); bean salad courtesy of my friend Carol during our PhD years together; quinoa salad in its many  guises; and the now-iconic raw kale salad, a discovery made during nutrition school. 

These days, I’m willing to try pretty much any kind of salad as long as it conforms to the strictures of the ACD (ie, no mushrooms) and doesn’t contain slimy creatures or animal parts.  And though I’ve read that iceberg is back in vogue these days, for me it still evokes memories of those flavorless piles of pallid greenery that my dad continues to consume;  I guess that after all those years, I just can’t escape my conditioned response to it.  (“Well, you can say that again, Mum. And if anyone knows about conditioned responses, it’s us. Was that a bell I just heard?”).

This salad, a recipe I adapted from the venerable Bonnie Stern via The National Post, is aptly named “Green Crunch.”  Almost every ingredient is, indeed, green–as well as crunchy.  The slices of Granny Smith apple offer up a lovely, sweet and juicy contrast to the grassy crunch of the celery and mild fennel.  Avocado provides richness and a creamy foil for the veggies, all bathed in a light and tangy citrus dressing. You can toss in any combination you please of greens and lettuce as a base.

But please, just be sure it’s not iceberg. 

[As seen here, the salad is missing the avocado (which I added after the photo was snapped).]

Last Year at this Time: How I Spent My Florida Vacation, Part II: Sarasota.  A Copycat Recipe. And Alligators! (Butternut-Edamame Hash Recipe).

Two Years Ago: Blogging Break

Three Years Ago: Bangkok Noodles with Cashews and Pineapple (easily ACD adaptable)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

*Or, It’s almost Valentine’s Day–time for bad puns!

When I was a teenager, I believed Valentine’s Day was all about romance–and the fact that I didn’t have a sweetheart with whom to be romantic.  I’d sit at home listening to (Rod Stewart’s version of)  The First Cut is the Deepest on my parents’ console stereo in our living room, fantasizing about tall, dark, handsome strangers who’d present me with a dozen long-stemmed roses; or dashing, rakish strangers (who happened to own their own chartered jets) who would sweep me off my feet and fly me to Paris for brunch. In reality, I was spending the evening alone, feeling sorry for myself and, mostly, wondering why I didn’t have a boyfriend.  My parents, of course, were out for the evening, with each other–since it was Valentine’s Day. 

Once I met my friend Sterlin in grade nine, she and I began to spend our Valentines Days together, watching old movies on TV and ruminating about why neither one of us had a boyfriend.  One of our best February 14ths was the year they decided to broadcast that old Susan Hayward classic, I Want to Live, on TV.  (You see, Oh Younger Readers, those were the days before the advent of PVRs–or even VCRs–in every home, and we were dependent upon the whims of the Great TV Programming Gods for our show selection.)  We sat on the faux leather sofa in my parents’ basement hunched over a big bowl of Doritos, alternately munching and sobbing uncontrollably–especially when the laywer character (not realizing he is defending his own mother) remarks to the Susan Hayward character (who is going to face the gas chamber after being wrongfully accused of murder), ”If I had a mother, I’d want her to be just like you. “  Oh, boo hoo hoo hoo!! (Crunch, crunch).

Nowadays, although I have a sweetie with whom to share the Day of Hearts and Roses (and let’s not forget Chocolate), I still bemoan the lack of romance in my life on Valentine’s Day.  The HH, you see, is many things (witty, kind, generous, incredibly artistically talented, a human trivia database, in love with our Girls), but “romantic” is not one of them.  His idea of romance is reading aloud to me. . . from his “Polywell Fusion Reactor“ article.  

Normally, for special occasions like Christmas or my birthday, I’ve learned to let the HH know in advance what I might like so that, at the least, he’ll show up after work with something gift-wrapped under his arm.  This year for Valentine’s Day, however, I decided not to put in my usual request for chocolates (not ACD-friendly) or champagne (ditto) or flowers (I’d probably be allergic to the ones he chose) and just accept that he expresses his love in other ways.  A few weeks ago, for instance, when I was feeling a little under the weather, the HH marched out into the snow and -22C (-8 F) weather with The Girls every evening to spare me having to go.  And when I slowly rotate my head from side to side in an attempt to release some of the stress in my neck, he’ll often magically appear behind my desk chair and provide a mini neck-and-shoulder massage, no prompting necessary. 

I hope I’ll be pleasantly surprised on Valentine’s Day, whether or not the HH’s contribution to the day is classically “romantic.”  For my part, I’ve got a special celebration in mind, and it involves making Whoopee. (Pies, of course.  Silly!).  We’ll have chocolate, we’ll have cake, we’ll have sweetness and a light filling.  And, of course, we’ll have each other. And that’s romantic enough for me.   

“Mum, we wouldn’t mind staying home watching a movie on Valentine’s Day if we could munch on those Doritos, too. . . or else maybe we could make our own canine form of whoopee by just playing outside.  As in, ‘It’s snowing–Whoooopeeeee!’”

Last Year at this Time: Apple Pie Smoothie

Two Years Ago: Featured in Clean Eating!

Three Years Ago: The Best Home Fries Ever

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs 

[Whipped "buttercream" variation. Go ahead. . . lick the beaters.]

When we were kids, my sisters and I used to crowd round my mother every time she baked something (coffee cake, chocolate chip cookies, cheesecake, or her legendary chiffon cake) just so we could vie for who’d get to lick the beaters, or bowl, or spoon (this was before the days of, “eggs carry salmonella” and “never share a spoon with your sister” and “kids aren’t allowed near the electric beaters,” of course).

At those times when she also frosted the cake–if she were making a layer cake for guests, say, or a custom cake for one of our birthdays–the competition turned a little more fierce.  Frosting-laden beaters or icing from the bowl were the real prizes.  And when it was finally my birthday and I got to choose whichever piece of cake I wanted, I always selected the corner slice, since it contained the largest percentage of icing roses (because, really, that was the real reason I was eating the cake in the first place).

Around the time we began to bake our own cakes (when I was about seven or eight), the CFO and I quickly figured out that it wasn’t necessary to mix up a batter, bake it, cool it and frost it just so that we could get our icing fix; we started mixing up icing on its own,  in soup bowls (my mother, who was at work and never got home before dinnertime, had no idea about our little habit, of course).

[Fudgy variation, piped onto grain free chocolate cupcakes.]

Even throughout my twenties and thirties when I had my own apartment in the city, I continued to feed my habit and would get my frosting fix on a regular basis. Ironically, at that time, I appeared outwardly healthy and slim, yet unknowingly feeding the latent spores in my system (doesn’t that sound incredibly sci-fi? Ooooh, creepy!).  How could I have known that I was actually nurturing candida through my addiction?

When I first made today’s recipe, I was at first reminded of the frosting of my youth.  True, feasting on frosting may not compare with shooting heroin, or snorting cocaine, or gambling compulsively, but it is an addiction nonetheless.  I had completely forgotten about the old habit, burning it from my memory the way Bette Davis burns off her fingerprints so she can impersonate her twin sister in Dead Ringer .  Around a dozen years ago, I had stopped cold turkey (cold ganache?) when the candida made itself known through a cluster of severe, chronic symptoms that all appeared within a few weeks of each other.

[As a filling in whoopie pies.]

Totally unlike the icing of my youth, however, today’s recipe (a) has no refined sugar; (b) is low on the glycemic index; (c) contains a vegetable, for goodness’ sake!; and (d) is anti-candida friendly (if you’re in the later stages of the diet, as I am now).  And guess what?  Even though I assumed I’d want to eat it all, I discovered–miraculously–that this frosting doesn’t trigger the desire to consume the entire bowlful, even if I indulge my inner child and lick the beaters.  It’s so full of nutrient density that I wasn’t able to eat more than a couple spoonfuls (no, seriously).

I spread some of this “buttercream” on the grain-free mini cupcakes from Kelly’s Divine Vegan Chocolate Cake recipe (have you entered the giveaway yet to win her book??) and later used it as the filling in my own Chocolate Whoopie Pies–my very first whoopee pie, ever!  The HH sampled a whoopee pie and declared, “These taste just like regular baked goods.”  Whoo hoo!

It feels great to know that I’ve kicked the frosting habit–well, even though I may have started a new frosting habit.  This time, it’s a habit I’m happy to share.

[Freshly mixed, in its fudgy incarnation.]

Last Year at this Time: Faux Pepperoni

Two Years Ago: Spiked Sweet Potato Truffles or Truffle Cups (not GF; ACD maintenance only; variation for Sweet Potato Frosting)

Three Years Ago: My Mother’s Potato-Corn Chowder

*Well, it’s not really “bourguignon.”  But it is ACD friendly, sugar free, gluten free, and vegan.  And it tastes delicious. What more could you ask for?

I will never forget the first lecture I attended as a callow undergraduate at the University of Windsor: it was Modern American Drama, with a professor named Dr. John Ditksy. In his early forties, Dr. Ditsky appeared to be the quintessential “absent-minded professor,” with a demeanor like Columbo, a wit like Woody Allen, and a face like Jason Schwartzman.  True to appearances, the man was brilliant.  I discovered later that he was one of the foremost Steinbeck critics in the world and had published hundreds of academic papers.

His lecture was peppered with words I’d never even heard before (I scribbled furiously in the margins of my notebook so I could look them up later:  “adumbrate,” “hyperbole,” “interstices” –as the hour went on, I felt less and less equipped for university), and every female student in the class developed a crush on him.  Of course, I immediately joined that coterie.

I carried my crush around with me wherever I went that year, like a thermos tucked under my arm; on the outside, cool, smooth and unassuming; on the inside, steamy hot. The only person who knew of my amorous infatuation was my buddy Michelle, who was as outgoing as I was shy and introverted.  Michelle never had a problem striding over to Dr. Ditsky at the end of each class, joking with him or posing obvious questions just to hear his witty response; she even tapped him on the arm a few times as she spoke (my cheeks flushed red just watching her). 

One day, as a few students milled about the hall outside the classroom waiting for the lecture to begin, Dr. Ditsky approached Michelle and me. Immediately, Michelle launched into some lively chatter, asking our prof how he had spent the previous weekend; she possessed none of the typical student’s reserve when it came to posing personal questions of authority figures.  Ditsky muttered something innocuous and returned the question. 

“Oh, pretty good,” she responded. ”I went to a party with my boyfriend and some of his friends.  You know, boring boys.” (She rolled her eyes at the last word).

He turned to me.  “Did you go, too, Heller?”  I could feel my face heat up, and shook my head. (Most likely, I had spent the majority of the weekend in residence or the library).

Suddenly, Michelle had an idea. ”You know, I think Heller here needs a boyfriend,” she piped up. “But not one of the guys from university.  I mean, the guys here are all so childish.  She needs someone older, more mature.” She stared meaningfully at him, nodding her head as if to impress upon him the gravity of the statement.  

To his credit, Ditsky didn’t flinch.  Without even cracking a smile, he responded, “Well, you know, you may have to wait a while for that.  For most guys it usually takes until their forties before they even start acting mature.” 

I wanted to cram myself under one of the classroom desks, or slink behind the water fountain and melt away like the Wicked Witch of the West when she was doused with water.  But then–something magical happened.

“You know, a few colleagues and I are having lunch** today at the DH Tavern after class,” Ditsky went on.  Why don’t you two ladies join us?” I had heard about the legendary “lunches” at the DH, where profs and a few select students engaged in hours-long discussions about literature, philosophy, culture and life, all punctuated by pub fare and too many beers to count.

Well, that initial lunch evolved into a 28-year friendship, until my beloved mentor passed away in 2006.  And from that very first meal, he treated me as if I were already a colleague and intellectual equal despite my lack of experience or erudition. After a couple of years of lunches at the DH, I was fortunate enough to be invited to join a group of students who were asked to spend a weekend at Ditsky’s home. 

Before that time, all I knew about Mrs. Ditsky was (a) she’d been married to my crush since they were both teens, and (b) he always (always) stopped to buy her flowers after our pub lunches, before heading to the Ambassador Bridge on his way home. The moment I stepped out of the car in Detroit , Mrs. D greeted me with a warm hug and led me by the hand up to the guest room where I’d be staying.  The bed, topped with a pale blue down comforter and several plumped pillows, was surrounded by antique bookcases filled with novels and other works of famous American authors–all signed by the authors. 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” she said as she placed my bag on the floor. “I thought you’d like to have the company of the writers you’ve been studying.”  How could you  not love such a woman as much as her husband?   

It was during that initial weekend when I first tasted beef bourguignon.  At the time, I had no idea that this French beef stew had been popularized by Julia Child, nor that it even contained wine.  All I knew was that I was served a rich, robust beef stew with tender chunks of meat, with a thick, buttery sauce that perfectly complemented the slippery noodles on which it rested.  I requested the recipe, fully expecting that Mrs. D wouldn’t reveal her secret. 

A few weeks later, I received a photocopy in the mail with a handwritten note detailing any changes she’d made (3 cloves of garlic instead of the one in the recipe; more onions; and the need for an electric knife to cut the meat into bite-sized chunks, though I never did use one).  She closed with, “You’re missed by both of us. Guest room is yours anytime you want. Hugs–Love, S &J.”  And with that, my girlish crush evaporated, and I gained not one, but two lifelong friends.

For years afterward, whenever I wanted to “wow” someone (read: a date) with a great homecooked meal, I made that beef bourguignon.  When I changed my diet back in 1999, the recipe was slipped into a file folder with other clippings and more or less forgotten.  Last week, it suddenly came back to mind.

Gemini I, her husband, and PR Queen and her husband were coming over for dinner. I knew the Geminis love beef; PR Queen, a vegan like me, mentioned that her husband won’t even consider eating a vegetarian meal.  As a result, the evening featured two parallel stews: beef bourguignon for them, and tempeh “bourguignon” for me and PR Queen.  And I daresay, PR Queen and I got the better deal.

In order to render the stew ACD friendly, I knew I’d have to eliminate the wine (*stifled sob*).  But what could I use in its stead? The obvious choice was vegetable broth, and of course I included it.  But what about the tart, tannic depth of the burgundy?  I was rummaging through the fridge when I spied it–my bottle of (unsweetened) cranberry juice.  Eureka!

Believe it or not, I think the juice is what made this dish so toothsome.  Tempered with a few drops of stevia, the sourness of the cranberries dissipates into the savory, sanguine broth. Redolent with parsley, thyme, marjoram and bay leaves, the stew was a perfect dish for an evening with good friends, old and new. It brought to mind that other one, long ago, shared with my mentor and his dear wife. Next time I speak to Mrs. D, I’ll be sure to offer her the recipe.  

**let’s face it, ”having lunch” is a misnomer. “Getting sauced” is probably more accurate.

Last Year at this Time: Parsnip Mini Loaves or Muffins with GF Option (ACD maintenance only)

Two Years Ago: Pumpkin Bread Pudding with Warm Caramel Sauce (not ACD friendly; not GF)

Three Years Ago: Comfort from the Cold: Spiced Brown Basmati Rice Pudding (for ACD, use stevia instead of maple syrup)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

[Sushi pizza, in its just-unmolded glory.]

You know, sometimes I wish I had a bunch of posts pre-scheduled for this site. You see, I’ve been afflicted with a weird kind of virus-flu-sinus-thingie for the past several days. Just when I thought I was better, the following day I could barely get out of bed and slept 14 hours.  Fourteen hours!!  Clearly, my body is telling me something (like, maybe, ”time to get those extra blog posts pre-scheduled.”).  Since I feel pretty good today, I’m going to leap on the opportunity and tap out this post toute de suite. Luckily, the skies cleared temporarily last Saturday as well, just in time for a dinner party I had planned.

You’ve probably heard it before, but truly, there is nothing like having old friends.  As my latest crush*, Irvin Yalom, says in his most recent tome, “You can’t make new old friends.”  That’s why it’s worth nurturing old friendships no matter what.  A huge benefit of long-term alliances is the shared history that helps to strengthen bonds in the present (or, when the present may be a little rocky, allows you to fall back on all that already-established goodwill).

For me, the “old friend” on whom I most rely is my pal Gemini I (and by “old,” I mean as in, “I’ve known her longer than I’ve known my younger sister.”).  I mean, who else would drop everything at 11:42 PM to sit in a cheap coffee shop with me for three hours while I cried about how my (then) marriage had just broken up?  Who else would force me to eat something while sitting for three hours in said coffee shop (almost the only time in my life I didn’t feel like eating because of stress)? Who else was there to double date with me when I (finally!) met my first boyfriend? Who else would cheer me on when I decided to leave my job for a spell and study nutrition? Who else would (literally) lend me the shirt off her back for a special date? Who else could sit with me and reminisce about events that happened when we were five years old?

I’ve often heard it said that you should never try new recipes on guests, but Gemini I’s status is more like family, so that old adage didn’t apply last weekend.  Then again, the other guests at the soirée were my buddy PR Queen (a veritable neophyte in the “friends-with-Ricki department at only 8 years) and her hubby.  But since PR Queen is my only other vegan friend, I reasoned that trying a new recipe would be acceptable in her case, too.

I decided to make this sushi pizza, combining the best of both Asian and Italian finger foods. Rather than roll up individual rolls as I usually do, I opted for a veganized/ACD revamp of a recipe I came across in Bonnie Stern’s Heart Smart: The Best of HeartSmart Cooking, which I’d checked out of the library.  (Yes, I do have more than 200 cookbooks.  And yes, for some bizarre reason, I still feel the need to look at yet more cookbooks from the library). Stern’s now-famous recipe deconstructs your standard nori rolls into their individual elements, layering them lasagna-style, then cutting them into little squares to serve as appetizers.  The only problem with the original recipe was (a) its reliance on regular white sushi rice and rice vinegar (two no-no’s on the ACD); and (b) its inclusion of smoked salmon as one of the layers.

What to do?  I immediately thought of using this recipe (which I’ve been eyeing for a while) in place of the salmon.  But when I made up a tester batch, I found that even though the flavor was marvelous, it didn’t adhere quite as well as I would have liked.  Instead, I added some liquid smoke to my own standard “salmon-like” sushi filling, and the resulting spread worked perfectly. I also used brown rice and apple cider vinegar (the only vinegar considered acceptable on the ACD) for the sushi rice (of course, you could substitute regular sushi rice if you are not following a special diet).

[Dessert, clockwise from back: banana cake, chocolate pumpkin pôts de crème, cookie dough truffles.]

I’m glad to say that the “pizza” was a great success, and even the omnis in the group (that would be everyone except PR Queen and me) enjoyed it immensely–only three small squares (from an 8-inch/20 cm square pan) were left when we hauled ourselves up to go eat the actual dinner.  After that it was on to the salad (baby spinach with grapefruit, kiwi and a tangy dijon dressing); crusty (non-GF) bread, courtesy of Gemini I; two types of stew (beef bourguignon for the omnis and a spectacular tempeh faux version for me and PR Queen–recipe anon) ladled over mashed potatoes, complemented by sautéed rapini with pine nuts and raisins (I picked out the raisins); accompanied by a great bottle of  First Press Cabernet Sauvignon (courtesy of Gemini I and her hubby).

Around the time that dessert made an appearance (chocolate pumpkin pôts de crème, chocolate chip cookie dough truffles, and banana cake, courtesy of PR Queen), the HH brewed his signature coffee (since, after more than a dozen years without, I’ve forgotten how), we were already moaning about how full we were and staggered into the family room to spend the remainder of the evening digesting and, ultimately, reminiscing. 

[My mom and me at my wedding to the Starter Husband.]

I ran upstairs and grabbed an old photo album from my undergraduate days.  Here’s another great thing about old friends: they remind you of all the details you’ve forgotten from your twenties.  I’d completely forgotten about those deep turquoise walls in Gemini I’s old place!  And how about that papasan chair that I so loved in my first apartment after the Starter Husband and I split up! We squealed at the hilarity of our younger, 1980s selves in geometric hairstyles and Amazonian shoulder pads; murmured at the photo of me with the puppy I shared with the Starter Husband; tsk-tsk’d at the image of old friends who have since fallen ill; and (well, I did, anyway) teared up at the photo of my beaming mother and me at my wedding to the Starter Husband (sadly, she never met the HH). 

All in all, it was a great evening, reaffirming old friendships and forging new(er) ones.  Unfortunately, the only photos I took that evening were of the food.  No matter: if I ever need a reminder, I can call up my pals and know they’ll have their own accounts of the dinner–each one served up with a square of sushi pizza.

I’m submitting this recipe to Amy’s weekly event, Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays.  Do you have a recipe to submit?  Check out the entries here!

Last Year at this Time: All About Stevia

Two Years Ago: Chinese Scallion Pancakes (not GF: ACD maintenance only)

Three Years Ago: Lucky Comestible I (5): Sweet Potato Pancakes (not GF; ACD maintenance only)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs

I have to admit, it was reassuring to read all the like-minded comments on my recent “I Hate Winter” post (even though it meant that a bunch of you are also having to endure it, too).  Thanks, all.  Despite my best intentions to abolish my abhorrence of winter, the Season of Slush and Ice just keeps on giving me more reasons to loathe it:  this time, a flu bug that’s been dogging me since Monday.  Dizziness, fever, chills and general malaise have been my constant companions for the past couple of days.  Come to think of it, I retract the word, “dogging” to describe winter’s effect on me–I wouldn’t insult The Girls by associating them with it in any way. 

“Thanks, Mum.  We appreciate it.  And, you know, if you’re feeling chilly in that big, soft bed of yours, we don’t mind if you break the rules just this once and let us hop up there with you to keep you warm.”

Luckily, I had received an email last month from the affable Nicola of G-Free Mom, inviting me to participate in her D-Tox January event, “a month of juices, smoothies and gluten free soups.”  As a survivor of Stage 3 breast cancer, mom to a child on a special diet and owner of a hypoallergenic dog, Nicola knows about eating healthfully!  Her intention for D-Tox January is to amass a list of fabulous detoxifying, nourishing and delicious recipes that anyone can enjoy–one new recipe each day of the month.  At the end of January, she’ll add a linky to this post, where you can share your own recipe for a juice, smoothie or healing soup. 

Nicola will choose one contributor from the entries to win a copy of Rebecca Katz’s book, One Bite at a Time: Recipes for Cancer Survivors and Their Friends. As Nicola points out, the book is a great resource for anyone who wants to eat healthier foods, whether cancer has touched their lives or not; and most of the recipes are gluten free.

Since I’d already prepared this smoothie for breakfast a couple of weeks ago, it came to mind again this morning when I needed something quick and detoxifying.  I called it “Groovy Green Smoothie” because the particular shade of green reminded me of a psychedelic collage The Nurse used to have hanging in her bedroom as a teenager.  As a quintessential Child of the Sixties, The Nurse was involved in all things “hippie.”  The oldest of the three siblings, she was awarded the coveted bedroom in the basement, sequestered away from the rest of the family and complete with a private bathroom.  She would spend hours with her friends locked in that room as they listened to rock n’ roll or did whatever hippies did in those days.  Occasionally The CFO and I would be watching TV in the family room and catch a few muffled giggles or the craggy wailing from a Janis Joplin album (her voice rendered even more gravelly by the cheap record player my sister had) emanating from beneath the closed door.

And on the bedroom wall was a collage made from magazine clippings that The Nurse stuck on a bristol board and framed. I clearly remember one image of a Twiggy-like model with spider-leg false eyelashes, glittery lipstick and a sleeveless paisley sheath in shades of neon turquoise, fuchsia and sky blue. The background was a shimmering shade of chartreuse–just like that smoothie you see, below.

I knew that sipping on this green drink would be both comforting and nourishing, the perfect antidote to winter’s harsh chill.  It did perk me up a bit, long enough to write this blog post. And if that’s not groovy, I don’t know what is.  

Blog News and Updates:  I’ve finally updated my Recipe Index pages (both of them) so that you can search for recipes up to the beginning of this month (I’ll add the January recipes at the end of the month).  Yay!

Kelly over at The Spunky Coconut is still running her giveaway of Desserts without Compromise (until January 24th)–if you’d like to win a free copy of my ebook, head over to Kelly’s blog and leave a comment!

The SOS Challenge for this month is also still running until the 31st.  We’d love to see your recipes made with coconut oil!  If you’ve got a recipe to share, link it up on our SOS page and you might win some coconut oil of your own.

“It’s not bad under here, Mum, but I sure would like to get on top of that bed with you.”

This recipe has been submitted to Amy’s weekly event, Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays.

Last Year at this Time: Raw Nori Rolls with “Salmon” Filling and Spicy Ginger Miso Paste

Two Years Ago: Yes, We Candy (Big Announcement Number One)

Three Years Ago: Lucky Comestible I: Mini Sweet Potato and Chocolate Chip Muffins (ACD maintenance only; not GF)

© Diet, Dessert and Dogs