I was one of those students who always did pretty well in math even though I didn’t understand most of it. In other words, I was a good memorizer. These days, I rejoice if I can remember what I ate for breakfast, but back then, even multiplication tables didn’t pose a challenge. The more advanced types of computation, however, were a complete mystery to me (which is why I dropped out of Calculus in CEGEP. Yes, I altered my entire career path, from Psychology to English Literature, based solely on my fear of statistics).
These days, the “new math” leaves me both breathless and hyperventilating (sometimes simultaneously). My friend Babe’s eleven year-old daughter conducts problems in long division using a multi-step process that involves drawing little lines, circles and boxes, seemingly much more complicated than the old-fashioned dividend/divisor (with remainders) method I learned in school. And even with all these new approaches, when the computer is down at our local video store, the cashier still has no idea how to make change for a cash purchase.
It’s times like those (when I can’t rent Bridesmaids, dammit) that I wish everyone could have a teacher like my eighth-grade functions instructor, Mrs. Klein. Well, that was her actual name, but we all affectionately called her Mrs. Clown. (No, she didn’t have a bulbous red nose and electro-shock hairstyle–though her hair was suspiciously white–but she did offer boundless energy, sweeping arm gestures, and a hilarious delivery that made us guffaw–at functions!).
Unlike most math teachers, Mrs. Clown actually made learning about algorithms, formulas, cosines and exponents fun. When she wrote an equation on the board and asked for volunteers to come up and solve it in front of the class, everyone’s hand shot up. When she explained images and sets, we sat entranced, as she peppered her explanation with anecdotes about her husband fixing the car engine over the weekend, or compared variables in a math problem to specific student personalities in the class. We students never sat through a single period in which we didn’t laugh out loud at least once or twice (and how many people can say that about their math class?). When the bell rang, we were genuinely surprised that the hour was up.
Mrs. Clown wrote notes on the board in huge, clear, print so that everyone–even spectacle-clad Norman at the back–could see it clearly; and she provided tips and tricks to ensure that we’d remember the rules. One of her favorite ways to point out a potential problem in a formula was by writing the word “SNAG” in all-caps and enclosing it in a box outline, like this:
When we spied those “SNAG” boxes, we knew we were in for an extra-lengthy anecdote. In fact, we’d sometimes deliberately attempt to create a “SNAG” situation in one of her problems, just so we could listen to another story about Mr. Clown.
Last week, when the HH and I received an organic cob of corn in our CSA, I decided to mix up these pancakes as an antidote to the overly greasy, heavy griddle cakes I ate a few weeks ago in New York City. I’d been thinking about corn pancakes since then, and when I spied this recipe on Jess’s blog, I knew I had to give it a try. Using her recipe as a template, I added two more types of corn (two corn “variables,” you might say) and was delighted with the results. And while the pancakes themselves were delectable, they introduced a mathematical conundrum of their own: what to call them? Are they “triple corn” pancakes? Or, perhaps, “corn cubed pancakes”? Sadly, I never truly mastered exponents despite Mrs. Clown’s tutelage, so that’s one formula that shall remain unsolved.
Whatever you call them, they were fantastic. The HH proclaimed these “the best pancakes you’ve made yet.” They’re incredibly fluffy, with a cakelike interior punctuated by a smattering of plump corn kernels (and do feel free to substitute blueberries if you prefer) and a subtle texture from the cornmeal. I had never used corn flour before and found it imparted a lovely, delicate crumb and mild flavor.
Next time you’re in the mood for pancakes, go ahead and have a couple of these, or three. Okay, maybe not, since five is a lot of pancakes. Oh, wait–SNAG–two PLUS three is five, not two OR three; I shouldn’t have added the numbers but rather divided the total batch of 12 into the single divisor of each serving instead (or was that “mulitply each serving”?). . . . which would have ultimately made a total of 1746 calories per batch, which works out to how many per person?
Whatever. The only equation you need to remember is: pancakes + topping = delicious.
Perfect for a lazy Sunday brunch or a light dinner, these pancakes are airy and just barely sweet on their own. If you have fresh corn kernels, this is a great place to use them, but frozen will do nicely, too. Note that most conventional corn these days is genetically modified, so organic is a much better choice if you can get it.
1 cup (240 ml) unsweetened soy, almond or coconut milk (from a carton)
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) apple cider vinegar
2 tsp (10 ml) extra virgin olive or avocado oil, preferably organic
1 tsp (5 ml) pure vanilla extract
5 drops plain or vanilla stevia liquid
zest of one lemon
1/2 cup (120 ml) fresh or frozen corn kernels (preferably organic)
1 cup (130 g) organic corn flour (preferably organic)
1/4 cup (60 ml) organic cornmeal (preferably organic)
In a small bowl or glass measuring cup, whisk together the milk, vinegar, oil, vanilla and stevia. Stir in the lemon zest and corn kernels and set aside.
In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, cornmeal, flax seeds, baking powder, baking soda, salt and xanthan gum. Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir just to blend (do not overmix–it’s okay if there are a few dry spots here and there).
Heat a nonstick pan over medium heat. Using a large ice cream scoop or 1/3 cup measuring cup, pour the batter into the pan, spreading the pancakes slightly with a silicone spatula or back of a spoon.
Cook for 4-5 minutes, until the pancakes begin to rise and puff up and the tops look almost completely dry (the bottom should be lightly browned). Gently flip the pancakes and cook another 3-4 minutes. Keep the prepared pancakes warm as you continue to use all the batter in this way. Makes 6-8 pancakes. May be frozen.
I hope you’re all having a great long weekend! I am thoroughly enjoying the last vestiges of the summer holiday. (What?? Summer is over? Back to school and sweaters and crinkly leaves on the ground and pelting rain and mud and paw prints all over the carpet and frigid mornings and seeing your breath as you huddle toward the car–in the dark–and cranking up the heat and pulling out the jackets and scarves and gloves and snow–snow!–and ah, me, it’s winter and—)
Sigh. Sorry about that little outburst. I’ve regained my composure, now.
Besides, now that I’m an adult (chronologically, anyway), I do realize that autumn isn’t all bad. There’s the flavorful fall produce, and hand knit sweaters (which are so good at covering up those midsection lumps and bumps) and corduroy, and crisp, fresh air that sharpens everything, as if the houses and trees and automobiles have been outlined with a thin tracing of ink.
Oh, and a bevvy of holidays.
When I was growing up, we shared a duplex with my aunt’s family just upstairs. Because Aunty M (no relation to The Wizard of Oz) was almost 20 years older than my mom, and because our grandparents had died before we were born, we kids always thought of Aunty M as more ”grandmother” than “aunt.” And let me tell you, nothing could compare to holidays at Grandma’s house.
The otherwise utilitarian kitchen table, a long wooden rectangle stained and etched from years of daily use, would be pushed into the living room (there was no dining room), with what looked like its metal-and-plastic progeny–the folding card table–set beside it (that was where the kids sat, of course). Freshly laundered and pressed white tablecloths were shaken out and smoothed into place, intersecting lines permanently engrained in their weave from having sat, folded neatly in blocks in the linen closet, for the remainder of the year.
On these occasions, my real grandmother’s silverware was fetched from the basement, a lone “K” engraved proudly on the handle of each knife, fork and spoon. We had actual napkins at the table for once, and soda (or “ginger ale,” as we referred to all types of carbonated beverages) was served in glass pitchers rather than directly from the plastic bottles. Glasses were set out and glistened, scalloped pickle plates were laid out, and the entire house began to buzz with anticipation.
My mother and my aunt would spend days preparing in the kitchen as we children wandered in and out, plucking raisins from cookie dough or absconding with whole chunks of semisweet chocolate. We’d peek at the huge pots like mysterious cauldrons bubbling and spurting on the stovetop, never venturing too close. At same time, the oven toiled all day as it transformed jiggly pans into cakes, cookies, or kugels, warming the kitchen and spreading the aroma of chocolate, cinnamon, vanilla and apple throughout the house.
Holidays were family occasions, shared with as many relatives as possible. I loved it when my cousin CBC and her family made the trek from Boston, since her kids were close to my age and their arrival always meant days filled with giggling, plays in the back yard, a co-conspirator with whom to tease the CFO, and extra treats for everyone. Despite anything that had preceded, the holiday dinners themselves were always happy affairs; adults were jovial and relaxed, we kids were allowed to indulge in second helpings of dessert, and everyone embraced the festive atmosphere. Whether it was a holiday, anniversary, or birthday celebration, we all came together to enjoy each other’s company along with the feast.
(When the HH and I were first together, I was both shocked and appalled to discover that he grew up in a home that didn’t celebrate holidays. No big family gatherings; no special meals; no gifts. “All days are special,” was his (otherwise normal) dad’s philosophy. “Every day is a holiday.” In fact, the HH was so accustomed to his family’s indifference about such things that he didn’t bother to get me a birthday present that first year we shared a house. Oh, yes. Hysteria [mine] ensued. Contrition [his] followed closely behind. And no, he hasn’t made the same mistake since.)
This year, I was feeling a little disheartened at the prospect of those imminent celebrations and Christmas just around the corner (for which I now supply a list of desired items to the HH every year) precisely because food has always played such an integral role in our family gatherings. I hadn’t anticipated still being on the ACD by now, you see. No feasting? No wine with dinner? No–dessert?!
It was almost enough to make me jump on the HH’s ”let’s just ignore the date” bandwagon. But then I realized two things: first, we could still make the days special. We can still set a beautiful table and make a point of sharing the evening with friends or family. We can still enjoy nature’s bounty. And I can still enjoy special-occasion foods; they just won’t be the same ones I used to eat as a child.
In fact, once I began to think about it, I was amazed at how many foods have found their way back into my diet.
First, there was chocolate–albeit unsweetened–but chocolate nonetheless. In Stage Two, the ACD gave me fruit. Previously forbidden apples (and pears, and berries, and peaches and nectarines) were welcomed back to the menu. Finally, as the symptoms continue to abate (they’re about 95% cleared up, now) the universe continues to bestow more and more low glycemic sweeteners. And the Universe said, “Let there be coconut sugar. And with it, let there be the occasional agave nectar.” And so, life is good.
This pear and cranberry cornmeal cake is the first cake I concocted with coconut sugar. Since corn is so often a symbol of autumn harvest, I thought cornmeal would be a perfect ingredient to include in this celebration dessert. Like the coconut sugar, corn is an “occasional” food on the ACD. Pears are abundant right now, and cranberries are quintessential harbingers of the holidays and the festive season.
Like sparklers on a birthday cake, the cranberries in this moist, dense sweet add glitter and verve, a tangy counterpart to the smooth sweetness of the pear chunks dotted throughout. The cake presents a surprisingly fine crumb, and the addition of lemon zest brightens everything. In fact, this dessert was so good that I took a first bite and immediately thought, “Oh, no, I’m not supposed to be eating this on the ACD” before realizing that “Oh, yes, I am allowed this on the ACD!”
Well, in moderation. It is a special occasion food, after all. But then again, despite what the HH’s father may have thought, it’s not every day we celebrate a holiday.
For those of you who celebrate, have a Happy Rosh Hashanah!
I thought this cake would be an ideal submission to Amy’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays event. Hop over and take a look at all the other delicious creations!
DDD News and Updates:
There’s a New (FREE!) Ebook from the lovely Alisa of Go Dairy Free and One Frugal Foodie. When she noticed the sorry state of back-to-school foods in her area, Alisa decided to do something about it and recruited a group of food bloggers to contribute recipes for an e-cookbook. The book, Smart School Time Recipes, contains over 125 recipes (a few from yours truly!) for healthy, kid-friendly breakfasts, snacks, lunches and more! You can download the cookbook directly from Alisa’s blog, here. Have I mentioned that it’s FREE?
And don’t forget there’s my new ebook, Desserts without Compromise, for $9.95 (available here). Or buy both ebooks for just $16.95. Great for holiday meals and desserts if you’re on a special diet!
I also wrote a guest post last week for Amy’s blog, Simply Sugar and Gluten Free. Amy’s recipes and mine have a lot in common. Somehow the perfect recipe match brought to mind the perfect life partner. . . so that’s what I wrote about! Check out the post here. I had lots of fun writing it.
DDD Gets Around:
Again this week, I’ve been honored that several DDD recipes were prepared or mentioned by other bloggers or writers! Here are some of the recipes you’ve all made or blogged about:
Did you cook up something from the blog or one of my cookbooks? Let me know if I’ve missed your post and I’ll add it next time! (for cookbook recipes, please ask permission before posting).
Pear and Cranberry Cornmeal Cake (suitable for ACD Stage 3 and beyond)
This cake is the perfect combination of light yet substantial with sweet yet tart. It’s a great way to end a meal or carry you through in between one to the next. Feel free to substitute apples for the pears here.
1/3 cup (80 ml) coconut sugar
1/2 to 1 tsp (2.5 to 5 ml) pure stevia powder (I used NuNaturals)
3/4 cup (360 ml) unsweetened plain or vanilla almond or soy milk
1 tsp (5 ml) apple cider vinegar
1 Tbsp (15 ml) finely ground chia seeds
2 tsp (10 ml) pure vanilla extract
zest of one lemon
1/4 cup (60 ml) coconut oil, preferably organic, melted
1-1/2 cups (200 g) Bob’s Red Mill all purpose gluten free flour (or your own blend)
1/4 cup (35 g) brown rice flour
1 Tbsp (15 ml) baking powder
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) baking soda
1/2 tsp (2.5 ml) fine sea salt
3/4 tsp (7.5 ml) xanthan gum
1/2 cup (85 g) cornmeal, preferably organic
2 pears, cored and diced (I didn’t bother to peel, but go ahead if you wish)
1 cup (240 ml) fresh or frozen cranberries
Preheat oven to 350F (180C). Line a ten inch (25 cm) flan pan, springrorm pan or pie plate with parchment, or spray with nonstick spray.
In a medium bowl, whisk together the coconut sugar, stevia, milk, vinegar, chia, vanilla and lemon zest until the sugar has dissolved. Add the coconut oil and whisk to blend. Set aside.
In a large bowl, sift the all purpose flour, rice flour, baking powder, baking soda, sea salt and xanthan gum. Add the cornmeal and stir together to distribute everything evenly.
Pour the wet mixture over the dry and stir to blend well. Fold in the pears and cranberries. Turn the batter into prepared pan and gently smooth the top. Bake in preheated oven for 35-45 minutes, rotating the pan about halfway through, until a tester inserted in the middle comes out clean. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 8-10 servings. May be frozen.
[Red plums, white(ish) cake, blue(ish) other plums--Happy 4th of July!]
Our recent visit to Montreal last week, like most of our road trips, involved a hamper of food to stave off starvation en route. As is my wont, the night before travelling, I basically ransack the kitchen and tote along anything that’s hardy enough to last the voyage. The list of provisions usually includes any leftovers from the previous two days, a stash of homebaked scones/muffins/bread, a container of homemade trail mix and any transportable fresh fruits or vegetables that would otherwise transform themselves into unrecognizable mush, green fuzz, or oozing fermentation if left to their own devices while we’re away.
Well, since Fridays mark our regular organic box delivery, and since we departed on a Saturday morning, there was plenty of produce to accompany us. We returned the following Monday to a near-empty refrigerator. I was poking around for a snack that evening when I first noticed it: a plain brown paper bag propped on the counter, its wrinkled top curled under in a makeshift closure. Feeling fairly certain that the HH hadn’t ordered something untoward off the Internet (or at the least, that he wouldn’t leave it on the counter in plain view if he had), I headed over to peek inside. And then, with a pang of remorse, I remembered: it was the bag of fresh plums from our organic box!
I’d completely forgotten the shiny, plump and purple spheres before we’d left, and they had started to wither a bit inside the paper bag (which, as you know, actually encourages fruit to ripen faster). They appeared to be nearing the end of any period of natural firmness left in them (sort of like Madonna’s face these days). What to do?
I could no longer eat them raw, but I was darned if I would toss them, either. Our first plums of the season–I knew I just HAD to find a good use for them! Besides, neither the HH nor I are huge plum fans, so we most likely wouldn’t have consumed them all in any case. I figured I could make jam, but that seemed like a cop-out. I could dehydrate them and convert them into prunes (the better for my recent diagnosis), but I’d just bought a 500-gram bag of the things the week before.
I thought about it for a moment. Then, as I tend to do when faced with most quandaries in my life, I opted for my usual course of action: bake something.
I was sure I’d seen a recipe on one of the blogs I regularly frequent (the list now tops 150–must update that blogroll!), but when I did a Food Blog Search, I couldn’t find it again (though Dorie Greenspan’s version made several appearances). I had some extra cornmeal in the cupboard from another recipe I’d made (more on that in a later post), so decided to combine the two and form a hybrid of sweet cornmeal muffins and plum cake.
I was very pleased with the final appearance of the experiment, sort of like a coffee cake studded with mounds of gorgeous, glossy purple and garnet fruit-gems. Well, the cake looked pretty, but how did it taste?
I cut a huge hunk of the still-warm confection for the HH and trotted outside, where he sat, dogs panting at his feet on our patio, reading the outdated newspaper we’d forgotten to cancel before the trip.
“Whoa, I can’t eat all that!” he wailed when he saw the size of the slice. “That’s way too much for me.”
“Don’t worry, that’s fine,” I acknowledged, “I’ll share it with you. Just let me go inside and get my book.”
I headed back inside to retrieve my latest read, Shopgirl by Steve Martin (Steve, man! There’s a reason for all those creative writing class clichés. “Show, don’t tell. Show, don’t tell.” Did you miss the intro lecture or something?). By the time I returned to the yard, the HH’s plate was empty. All that remained of the cake was a subtle smudge of pink juice and a few errant crumbs, the only evidence that the plate had ever held anything at all.
“Where’s the cake?” I asked. He shrugged a little, looking positively sheepish.
“It was so good, I just ate the whole thing,” he said.
Now, how could I possibly balk at that? Even as I headed back in a second time to rustle up my own slice, I was smiling. And I felt no regret whatsoever about forgetting those plums at home, after all.
Since Sia over at Monsoon Spice is asking for breakfast dishes with fruit for Weekend Breakfast Blogging (the event originated by Nandita at Saffron Trail), I’m sending this off to her. (And I can assure you, this makes a wonderful breakfast!).
Rustic Plum-Topped Cornmeal Breakfast Cake
Neither too sweet nor too delicate, this cake is perfect for breakfast or brunch as well as a summertime dessert. If you prefer muffins, simply chop the plums after removing the pits and fold into the batter before spooning into muffin tins instead of the flan pan (and bake for slightly less time).
Cake:
1-3/4 cups (245 g.) light spelt flour
3/4 cup (135 g.) cornmeal (preferably organic)
1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) sea salt
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) baking powder
1/4 tsp. (1.5 ml.) baking soda
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) finely ground flax seeds
finely grated zest of one small orange
juice of one small orange plus enough soymilk to equal 3/4 cup (180 ml.)
1/3 cup (80 ml.) agave nectar
1/4 cup (60 ml.) organic sunflower or other light-tasting oil
10-12 small fresh, ripe purple or red plums (not the European prune variety), cut in half and pitted
Glaze:
1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) extra agave nectar mixed with 1 Tbsp. (15 ml.) water, optional
Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C). Lightly grease a flan pan or 9-inch (about 20 cm.) springform pan.
Cut each plum in half and remove the pit. Place skin down on a plate or cutting board.
In a medium bowl, mix the flax, juice and soymilk mixture, zest, agave nectar and oil. Whisk to blend and set aside while you measure the dry ingredients, or at least 2 minutes.
In a large bowl, sift the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Pour the wet mixture over the dry and mix to combine. Turn the mixture into the prepared pan.
Arrange the plum halves skin side down over the surface of the batter in a decorative arrangement. Press the plums into the batter slightly.
Bake for 25 minutes, then glaze the top if desired (prepare the glaze while cake is baking). Return the cake to the oven for another 10 minutes or so, until the top is golden and cake part tests done when a toothpick or sharp knife is inserted into it. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 10 servings.
[This recipe will also appear in my upcoming cookbook, Sweet Freedom, along with more than 100 others, most of which are not featured on this blog. For more information, check the "Cookbook" button at right, or visit the cookbook blog.]
