Gluten-Free Girl Recommends

Bio-Naturae gluten-free pasta

2010-06-14T15:17:00.000-07:00

We're lucky. (If, like me you are gluten-free, you are included in this we.)

These days, there are so many good gluten-free pastas that we have the ability to choose. Almost every major grocery store carries gluten-free pasta of one kind or another.

But we have the choice of one or another, we always reach for Bionaturae.

When Danny was still at Impromptu, and the entire menu was gluten-free, he always had gluten-free pasta in the back for customers who came in. He only allowed this Bionaturae gluten-free pasta in his restaurant.

It tastes good. It holds up. And unlike some of the other gluten-free pasta, this one doesn't fall apart or sag in the middle. It's from Italy, where they know how to make pasta, for gosh sakes. Why would you trust anyone else?

Buy some. You won't be disappointed.

Trader Joe's Whole Grain Drink

2010-04-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed that Trader Joe's is providing more and more gluten-free foods for us to enjoy?

For that matter, have you noticed that every grocery store suddenly seems flooded with more and more gluten-free goods? We seemed to have reached a tipping point, people. We're here to stay.

Of course, as more companies jump on the gluten-free bandwagon, trying to make money from the obvious demand, the quality of those foods varies widely. I've tried some truly awful gluten-free foods in the last few years. The last few months have brought some mouthfuls that I couldn't swallow. Seriously, there's some bad stuff out there.

This, however, is fantastic.

Before my celiac diagnosis, I would not have thought anything called Whole Grain Drink would be any good. Now, however, I've not only come to love whole grains but also appreciate the power they have. We eat quinoa or millet or teff or brown rice every day. I baked with flax seed meal and amaranth flour and oats frequently. The irony is that I ingest more whole grains now than I ever did when I thought I could eat wheat.

This drink is one of the most pleasant ways to get a good dose of whole grains that I've ever tried.

It's not as weird as it sounds. It's like rice milk, or soy milk, or hemp milk — there's another thing I thought I would never like — except this time it's made with brown rice, amaranth, millet, and quinoa.

It tastes faintly of vanilla. It's thick enough to have a texture, but not so thick that you think you're drinking sludge. It's light and somehow quite addictive.

Will it help to know that I enjoyed this so much that I kept taking slugs right from the carton, as I stood in front of the refrigerator? I couldn't help it.

Next time I'm back at Trader Joe's, I'm buying a case.

Elderflower Pressé

2010-02-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

I've always had an unnatural passion for all things British. When I was 14, and saw the BBC production of Romeo and Juliet, I swooned — in the swoony swoon way that only a 14-year-old girl can do — for the young man who played Romeo. I swear, I started reading Shakespeare only because Patrick Ryecart was so cute. (Luckily, I kept reading for other reasons.) The Beatles, Brideshead Revisited, bangers and mash — if it was British, I loved it.

After living in Great Britain twice, my passion became calmed when swirled with the real-life details of maddening traffic on the South Circular Road, only 3 television channels (and one of them played a test card of a girl with a clown from midnight until 9), and the not-pleasant surprise of apple pies baked without sugar. At 16, my vision of the place matured beyond swoony swoon.

I love all things British even more for that, now.

My friend Kairu loves the British things too. Last week, for a party, she brought bottles of this Elderflower Presse by Belvoir Fruit Farms. She admitted that she first read about elderflower cordial in a British novel she bought at the airport to keep herself occupied. I'm glad that she had to read a trashy book. That means I've experienced this drink.

Slightly fruity, with a hint of citrus, this drink is subtle. It's not soda. It's not sparkling water. It's not overly sweet. It is delicious. Elderflowers feel very British and Victorian, don't they? Their taste, however, is quite modern. Floral and faint, not enough to assert, just enough to please. I'm hooked.

Danny doesn't drink and I rarely do. Finding interesting non-alcoholic beverages is somewhat difficult, however. This elderflower cordial has the feeling of fine wine, without the alcohol.

And of course, it's gluten-free.

Belvoir Fruit Farms makes a series of appetizing-sounding drinks: cranberry pressé, lime and lemongrass pressé, and cucumber-mint-and-geranium blossom pressé.

Of course, shipping from the UK can be pricey here in the US. Our friend Kairu buys her elderflower pressé by the case at Big John's PFI, here in Seattle.

If you try some, let us know where you found it and what you think.

Zing Gluten-Free Power Bars

2009-10-27T18:01:00.000-07:00

I don't really like power bars.

People keep telling me that I should pack them in the car, tuck them in my pockets for long days away from home, and definitely stash them in my suitcase when we are traveling. I have tried. I don't really like them.

A couple of months ago now, when the light was still high in the sky at 9 pm, Keren stopped me. You might know Keren better as Frantic Foodie, and that she is. How the woman organizes dozens of food-related events in Seattle, while she has a baby younger than Little Bean is way beyond me. I'm often exhausted by 6 pm. Keren seems to just thrive on this beehive of activity that is always swirling around her.

Along with this, Keren seems to know everyone. And she wants to connect them all together.

So she stopped me and said, "You have to stay for a few more minutes. I have to find Minh-Hai. You have to try our bars." We waited. We talked with Christine, who was selling chanterelle mushrooms nearby. But I sort of dreaded the encounter, I'll admit. You see, I really don't like power bars (or snack bars, or whatever bars people call them). I've recommended some here, because I know other people like them, and I want to point out the best of them. But in that moment, I didn't need another bar.

Minh-Hai smiled as she reached out her hand. And then she handed me some Zing Bars. "We would love for you to try them. They're gluten-free."
I smiled, said thank you, talked with her for awhile. She's lovely. I forgot the bars and focused on her.

And when we got home, I put them in the cupboard.

Just a few weeks ago, Danny was gone at work, and Little Bean was running me ragged. She wasn't sturdy enough to stand at the counter yet and help me cook. We had no hand-held food in the house. Everything needed to be prepared. So I reached for one of these in the pantry and took a bite.

Wait a minute. What?

These are good. I mean, good. I mean, they taste like actual food. The chocolate peanut butter tasted like a clean Reese's cup. I almost thought it was candy, except it was not too sweet.

The fact that they're full of good fats, important proteins, free of hormones or anything artificial? That's great too. Zing Bars were created by a team of four registered dieticians, who designed them to be wonderfully healthy and ridiculously tasty.

That they are.

I loved the cranberry-0range and almond-blueberry as well. But if I needed a pick-me-up in the middle of the afternoon, a slight pause before taking off after the toddler again? I'd reach for one of those Zing chocolate peanut butter bars in a minute.

silicone financier molds

2009-10-13T22:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Danny decided to make polenta. This isn't unusual here. We take turns jumping up from the couch with a new idea for breakfast.

But this one was different, because he decided to make the polenta in Little Bean size.

She's eating all the time these days. Most of all, she likes reaching over to eat what is on our plates. Danny figured that, if we could make more food that fit into her hand, entire, she'd eat her own food.

So he made warm polenta with fresh herbs and goat cheese. Then he pulled out the silicone financier mold we bought last month.

We've been busy. We haven't been able to use them. We imagined savory financiers and small puddings, little bar cookies, and other goodies we have yet to create. However, we hadn't made any of them.

So he spread the polenta over the molds and put them in the refrigerator. An hour later, he popped them out of the molds — no problem — and cooked them in olive oil, topped them in parmesan.

Little Bean speared one with her fork and chewed. Then smiled, then ate them all up.

And then she looked at Danny, who was already teary, patted his hand, and said, "Thank you." (in toddler language, of course.)

We were both unable to speak for a few moments.

Danny said, "You know, I've probably cooked for thousands of people, and it has always meant a lot to me when they enjoyed my food. But that right there? That means more to me than any of those meals."

Yes.

That moment would not have happened without those molds.

Eat Local

2009-06-09T10:46:00.000-07:00

One of our favorite places in Seattle is a tiny storefront next to a dry cleaners, on the top of Queen Anne hill.

Eat Local sources its ingredients from some of our favorite local farmers, ranchers, and producers. "Eat Local is an artisan food store offering prepared meals made with seasonal, organic ingredients bought directly from local farms." It sounds good, right?

Their meals taste even better than the ethos sounds. Eat Local uses traditional home cooking methods, rather than mass production, to create frozen meals anyone can enjoy. Have you ever had a pork and apple tagine in a tv dinner? Made with ingredients you recognize and nothing else?

I also love the fact that the meals are packaged with the environment in mind. Much of the food comes in glass dishes that you bring back to the store. It's like a neighbor made you dinner, and then you return the favor. It's a bonus that all the labels and illustrations for the store are created by Nikki McClure, one of my favorite artists, as well.

Not all the food at Eat Local is gluten-free, but much of it is. Greg Conner, the driving force behind Eat Local, has a good friend with celiac, and thus an interest in feeding people safely. (Businesses built on personal connections are always my favorite.) We've eaten their food quite a number of times now, always with great enjoyment, and safely for me.

The lavender creme caramel is particularly stunning.

Eat Local
2400 Queen Anne Avenue North
Seattle, WA 98109
206.328.3663

Kinnikinnick hamburger buns

2009-06-09T10:45:00.002-07:00

Skagit River Ranch ground beef burgers (a little trick: mix in one egg to firm up the burger), cheddar cheese, grilled Walla Walla sweet onion and caper relish. And Kinnikinnick Foods Gluten-Free hamburger buns.

Summer's here.

French Meadow Bakery "flour" tortillas

2009-06-09T10:45:00.001-07:00

Like I said, everyone sends us brownies. (Here's a secret: it's really not that hard to make good gluten-free brownies.) They're all quite good, but they start to taste the same. When I open the latest box, I long for something new.

How about "flour" tortillas?

We love corn tortillas around here, particularly the ones we make by hand. And white wheat flour tortillas are a gringo invention anyway, right? But sense memory says that sometimes a quesadilla should be made with flour tortillas. These white tortillas are newly made by French Meadow Bakery in Minnesota. This organic bakery makes all kinds of glutenous goods, but their gluten-free production is certified by the Gluten-Free Certification Organization. Their chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and macaroons are quite good.

But these tortillas are something else.

Danny ate nearly all of them himself, making quesadillas, one after the other.

French Meadow Bakery
1000 Apollo Road
Eagan, MN 55121
651-286-7861
1-877-No-Yeast

Blackbird Bakery

2009-06-09T10:44:00.002-07:00

The FedEx man and UPS woman know the way to our house now. Nearly every day we find a package of gluten-free foods on our porch when we return home.

We're happy that so many small businesses are trying to make it by creating gluten-free baked goods. However, I can't tell you about all of them. Some of them are wretched — dry as dust, overly sweet, a wreck in a plastic package. So when good ones land in our laps, I'm happy to share.

The baked goods at Blackbird Bakery are lovely. So is the website. Karen Morgan, who began the bakery, is an artist with a husband who was trained in classic French cuisine. For years, before turning to commercial baking, Karen kept the website The Art of Gluten-Free Cooking. Now, her bakery in Austin is turning out beautiful baked goods.

We liked everything we tasted, including the scones and biscotti. But I particularly liked these millet power bars, in part because no other bakery seems to be making them. (Everyone sends us brownies.) A little like a rice krispie bar, without all that sweetness, and millet mixed in.

I'd like to keep some of these in the car for those in-between times, when there's nothing gluten-free to be found in public places.

Blackbird Bakery
512.236.0707

Gluten-Free Oats

2009-06-09T10:44:00.001-07:00

The first year after I was diagnosed, I bemoaned the fact I could no longer eat oats. After years of eating steel-cut oats every day, I had to cut myself off. Strangely, I missed my morning bowl of oatmeal more than baguettes. I resigned myself to never eating them.

Again, how much things have changed.

Now, not only does Bob's Red Mill make gluten-free oats, but commercial baked goods made with oat flour and oat flakes are starting to show up on shelves around here. There are so many varieties of gluten-free oats available that we have our choice.

Lately, we've been enjoying Gluten-Free Oats around here. The oats taste great. The story is sweeter.

The son of the family who grows and manufactures these oats was diagnosed with celiac at the age of two. His parents didn't let him wheat, of course, but he ate the oats they grew in another field. Sometimes he grew sick. No one could figure out why. Later, when he was doing his Future Farmers of America project on no-bake cookies, he realized that oats are contaminated by growing in fields next to fields of wheat. (Those plants like to mix and mingle, apparently.) He searched for a source of oats he could eat. After finding one, he rolled the oats and packaged them himself, so that other local celiacs could eat oats. (Future farmer indeed!) This small endeavor grew into a family business, pushed forward further when his father was diagnosed with celiac too.

I met both father and son this weekend, at the GIG conference in Seattle, and they were utterly charming. And healthy.

Their oats are pretty darned tasty, too.

Gluten-Free Oats
578 Lane 9 • Powell, WY 82435
(307) 754-2058 • Fax (516) 723-0924

Great Harvest Bread in West Seattle

2009-06-09T10:43:00.001-07:00

Have you noticed it lately? Whenever we're walking, we spot the phrase, on packages and advertisements and even in the windows of bakeries: gluten-free.

How did we become the cool kids?

Gluten-free is everywhere. Well, not everywhere. Not in hospital cafeterias, airports, school lunchrooms, or places where we need something to eat and nothing exists for us. But still, it's a start. When I was diagnosed with celiac, four years ago, I had to drive around to several different stores to find what I needed to make a cookie recipe. These days, I have my pick of places I want to be.

Or, when I'm in West Seattle, I just go into the Great Harvest Bread Company.

I know. With a name like that, it has to be gluten, right? Except, this particular location of the bread company has gluten-free pizza crusts, breads, scones, hamburger buns, and cupcakes. And they're good.

After I took photographs, in astonishment, I asked the young woman behind the counter how this came to be. The owner and her daughter cannot eat gluten. So they have set out to conquer gluten-free baking, for the sake of everyone else.

Oh yeah.

Great Harvest Bread Co.
4709 California Ave. S.W.
Seattle, WA 98116
(206) 935-6882

The G-Free Diet and Babycakes

2009-06-02T19:53:00.001-07:00

If you have to live gluten-free, you've probably already heard of both of these books.

Elisabeth Hasselbeck's The G-Free Diet: A Gluten-Free Survival Guide and BabyCakes: Vegan, Gluten-Free, and (Mostly) Sugar-Free Recipes from New York's Most Talked-About Bakery both came out in May. (Not really a surprise, since it was National Celiac Awareness Month.) Both were published by major publishers, or given a major campaign push reserved for non-celiac books.

And both have been excoriated by people who are gluten-free.

I'm going to step lightly in recommending these books, because I'm certain this will open up a firestorm of comments, some of them excoriating me. But that's why I am recommending these books — because they start conversations.

For decades, those with celiac suffered in obscurity. No one talked about celiac or living gluten-free in the press. I have met dozens of people in the past three years who have been gluten-free for the past 25 years, and they all say the same thing: it was like living in the dark ages. Sorghum flour, teff, sweet rice flour, quinoa — they weren't readily available. Heck, even in the four years I have been gluten-free (four years this week), the awareness of living gluten-free has expanded, exponentially.

We need to spread even more awareness. Of the estimated 1 out of 133 people (and some scientists say it's actually more) with celiac disease, only 3 to 5% of us have been diagnosed.

Wouldn't you think that two huge, mainstream books dedicated to living gluten-free, and joyfully, would receive big hurrahs from those of us who are lucky enough to have been diagnosed and eaten our way to health already?

There are loud voices shouting that Elisabeth Hasselbeck's book is full of inaccuracies, because she called celiac a food allergy in her television interviews. But the book clearly delineates that celiac is an auto-immune disorder. I think there are two things going on here.

1. Hasselbeck calls celiac an allergy in the context of ordering in restaurants or explaining herself at parties. This I understand. Most of the time, when I am at restaurants, I'll say allergy too. Why? Because it has an effect. Waiters have been, marginally, trained in food allergies. If I say I have an auto-immune disorder, they are going to look at me far more blankly than if I say I have a food allergy. They're more willing to help an allergy. Not fair, but pragmatic.

2. It's clear from reading The G-Free Diet that Hasselbeck had a writer help her with the book, perhaps even write the bulk of it. (She's thanked in the acknowledgments but not credited.) I've been a ghost writer before, for a book that was never published. I did almost all the research, structuring, and heavy lifting. The other person comes in for the more personal stories. In interviews, Hasselbeck may have gotten her words wrong because she doesn't have the depth of understanding that someone who lives this stuff would, right off the cuff.

But here's what moved me. She suffered with celiac, like the rest of us. Famous or not, if you have undiagnosed celiac, you suffer for years. The book's opening chapters, detailing her symptoms and the struggle to discover what ailed her, sounded deeply familiar. There are thousands of people suffering with stomach pains and joint aches and anemia and any of the hundreds of symptoms that celiac can trigger. Someone with a huge media following telling her story is going to reach thousands of people who have never read a gluten-free blog, heard of celiac support groups, or even understand what gluten is when they hear it. That's going to potentially save the lives of a lot of people.

Let's face it. This isn't a literary book. It isn't meant to be. I sat down to read it when the baby took a nap and finished it later in the afternoon. I think calling it "gfree" is a little too cute for my terms. And the chapter urging everyone to try this diet because it helps you lose weight is simply poppycock. That hasn't worked for many of us.

But anyone who tries to go gluten-free as a trendy way of being is going to stop soon anyway. It requires too much commitment for a flippant decision.

What the book does well is lay out the important parts of living gluten-free: how to keep your kitchen; how to deal with restaurants; how to ask your partner for help; how to deal with families and holidays and social situations. Hasselbeck eats more processed food and packaged meals than I prefer to do, so her lists of products and places to eat may not appeal to me. But they will appeal to a large swath of America, particularly when they are first diagnosed.

This is clearly a book for folks who have just been diagnosed, or who are starting to wonder if they have celiac. I expected this to be a frivolous work (I mean, look at that ridiculous cover.). However, I found it to be a plainspoken, clear guide, mostly well-researched and entirely earnest. (Dr. Peter Green, one of the most respected celiac scientists in this country, wrote the forward for the book and read through it for the publishers.) Hasselbeck advocates that people advocate for themselves and do this right. Clearly, she intends for this book to help people. And it will.

I know that thousands of people will be diagnosed with celiac this summer because this book has been published. And I'm thrilled.

Now, BabyCakes.

I'm often asked why I don't have more dairy-free recipes on my site. The answer? I can eat dairy. This site is a personal record of the food we have eaten and loved, the meals that spawned stories we'll be telling for years. Sometimes they are dairy free. Sometimes we eat ice cream. Now that Babycakes has come along, I'm thrilled that I have a baking book I trust to recommend to those folks who wish I wouldn't eat dairy.

I love Babycakes, the bakery. I went there in February of 2006, a joyous trip just before I met Danny for the first time. At the time, I wrote: "Babycakes is simply the best little bakery I have ever stood inside." I still stand by that.

Here's what part of what I wrote:

"The morning I was in Babycakes was magic. After a brittle cold winter week, we had a warm Saturday morning. Everyone who walked into the bakery began smiling. I have to say, though, I'm sure that the enveloping smell of warm chocolate cake and tart lemon cupcakes mingling in the air enticed the smiles to emerge. Everything smelled wholesome and decadent at the same time.

We ordered a chocolate chip cookie and two cupcakes. Somehow, we resisted the gooey chocolate cake resting on the top of the counter. I had to take a photograph and let that take the place of throwing my mouth down and gobbling it all up in one bite. I restrained myself. But it smelled that good.

My friends and I walked out of the store, and into the sunlight. We took photographs on the sidewalk and laughed at ourselves. We bit down into our treats and murmured about their goodness. The cookie was crisp and thin, filled with oozing chocolate. And the cupcakes? Well, since I had already been to another gluten-free bakery that morning with my friends, and I was headed for a plane that afternoon, I let Monica take them home instead of eating them on the spot.

She reported joy upon eating them.

I ate well and gluten-free in a number of places in New York during my whirlwind eating tour. But in the end, I like Babycakes best. I only wish that I lived in the neighborhood, so I could visit its warmth more often."

Now, how could you not want a cookbook that could produce goodies that make you feel like that? Especially when it makes being gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free look so sexy and free?

Well, here's the rub. The book is labeled gluten-free. However, about 1/3 of the recipes call for spelt flour. Spelt contains gluten. Erin McKenna, the bakery's founder and author of the book, does not have celiac. She can eat spelt, without issue. The book is fairly clear, in the opening, about explaining the difference, and laying out (sadly) that those who have celiac simply cannot make these scones and pie crusts recipes.

For this, some gluten-free folks are calling for a boycott of the book.

Oh come on. Really?

Look, I wish that McKenna had done the work to create those recipes gluten-free. We make pie in this house all the time. It's not hard, gluten-free. But it's her book. And there are plenty of gluten-free delicacies in the cookbook that you will want to make, like the brownie gems.

It would have been better if the "mostly" in the sub-title had been placed in front of the gluten-free. But I can tell you this, having written a book: authors have almost no control over the subtitles of their books. (I would never have chosen mine.) That's the marketing department. They're the ones who pulled the switch here.

Look, this book is beautiful, luscious, and fun. And imagine if you had to be gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free? Wouldn't you be thrilled if finally a baking book was published for you? One that makes that life seem so delicious?

We all live and eat in different ways, even all of us with celiac. None of us owns gluten-free. These books are best-sellers. Certainly, they have sold far more copies than my book has, or ever will. You'd think I'd try to dissuade you from buying them, and point out mine instead. (And I wouldn't mind if you bought my book.) But that isn't the point. The point is for everyone to be diagnosed, to live without the pain and suffering of celiac (or gluten intolerance) while eating gluten.

And if there are cupcakes along the way? All the better.

I'm giving away copies of both books. Let me know why you might like to read The G-Free Diet or the Babycakes book, and I'll choose a winner at random. These books were sent to me by the publisher, and I'd like to share them with you.

Bob's Red Mill corn products

2009-05-23T09:13:00.001-07:00

We have a story. A story of why we've been gone so long. A ragged story, one that ends well.

I'm too tired, at the moment, to tell that story. And I'm not even sure how much I want to tell, yet.

So instead, I want to share this with you:

Bob's Red Mill now has gluten-free corn products.

Now there's a joy, like late-afternoon May sunlight falling through the living room windows when you have been cooped up inside for a week.

You know Bob's Red Mill, don't you? The good company from Oregon that believes in whole grains and wants to sell them to you. If you are gluten-free, you know Bob's Red Mill. They make the little bags of flour that line the pantry shelves of folks who try to bake gluten-free breads and cakes. That little symbol on the bag — the grain of wheat with a big red line through it — serves as an instant comfort in the grocery store. I can eat this.

However, for years, I haven't experienced that comfort with Bob's Red Mill corn flour or corn grits. At the farmers' market recently, I had to politely decline an offer of grilled polenta with local goat cheese and sauteed spinach. Why? They had made the polenta with Bob's Red Mill cornmeal.

You see, Bob's has two separate facilities in their factory: gluten-free and not. This is the great solace for us. Because the amaranth is made in the gluten-free half, we don't have to worry about cross-contamination when making chocolate chip cookies. However, until now, the corn products have been processed in the not half of the factory.

I'm sure many of us grew sick from the cross contamination because we failed to notice the absence of that wheat grain with the red line.

Now, however — triumph! Bob's recently moved to a larger facility. That gave them the space to produce the corn products in the gluten-free half of the factory.

Corn flour. Cornmeal. Corn grits. Gluten-free.

Homemade pasta. Cornbread. Pizza crusts with a little bite at the bottom. Shrimp and grits.

Bob's has shown a huge dedication to us gluten-free folks. I could not have baked and cooked without them these past four years.

(This week, this website turns 4 years old. Wow. We're just about ready for kindergarten, this site and me. That feels about right for how much I still have to learn.)

Now, there will be even more experiment and play in this kitchen.

Thanks, Bob. Always.

Hungry Monkey

2009-05-11T09:01:00.000-07:00

The first time I met Iris, she cuddled up to me on her couch and asked me to read her a book. We looked at an illustrated book of a girl's travels in Paris, and Iris pointed out every detail. Then, she clambered between the arm of the couch and the wall, and announced that the hot dog stand was open. When I asked for a gluten-free bun, she didn't blink. Just reached into the space behind the couch and pulled up my invisible hot dog.
"Thank you," I said.
"Sure!" said Iris.
She was three.

When Danny first met Iris, she sat in our living room and announced, "My two favorite restaurants in Seattle are Lark and Union." (Her parents informed us, quietly, that she had been listening to them talk about where they loved to eat. This kid picks up everything.)
Later in the day, after we had eaten gluten-free ginger cupcakes with lemon frosting (Iris gave them the thumbs up), we were all sitting around telling stories. Iris sat on the carpet in front of Danny, who was laying down with his back against the desk. When we all laughed particularly hard, and he waited a beat to breathe before laughing out loud, Iris turned to him, slapped him on the arm, and said, "That's funny."
(We say this every day.)
She was still only three.

When Little Bean first met Iris, she was in the ICU, connected to breathing and feeding tubes, hooked up to beeping monitors, small and vulnerable on that enormous bed. Iris entered the room, climbed onto the bed, and read Love and Kisses to Little Bean. She read this sweet little book full of blown kisses and giggling gooses with word-perfect enthusiasm and astonishing aplomb.
She was four years old.
We have read that book to Little Bean every day since.

How could we not adore Iris?

After reading Hungry Monkey: A Food-Loving Father's Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater you will adore Iris too. Guaranteed. If you don't, there's something wrong with you.

Now, let me clear about this. The author of Hungry Monkey, Matthew Amster-Burton, is a really good friend of ours. We're excited when we see him, Laurie, and Iris come to the door, bearing food, or cilantro seeds. (Two weeks ago, Iris planted cilantro in our garden, and this week the first green sprouts arose from the dark soil.) Matthew makes me laugh in emails and telephone conversations and in person. He is, frankly, one of the funniest human beings on the planet.

How can you resist buying a book about feeding children that includes the following passage?

"Iris is very into sprinkles, in the same sense that Robert Downey Jr. was very into cocaine. Typically, if I ask her to help put sprinkles on something, one-third of the sprinkles will end up on the cake and two-thirds will end up in Iris's stomach. 'I'm just tasting them,' she'll say innocently. This is always good for a laugh but, I have advised her, will probably not work in court any better than it did for Robert Downey Jr."

You see? You already know — this is not your typical Feeding Baby book. Thank goodness. Every other one of those I have read is sanctimonious, terribly out of touch, and boring. This is the only one that has ever made me laugh.

I read the first draft of this book, and made suggestions, and the second draft of this book, and helped to organize its structure. I'm thanked in the acknowledgments. And the publishers asked me to give a quote for the back of the book. (I never thought I'd be on the same book cover as Anthony Bourdain.) Really, I am as entangled and hopelessly biased about this book as is possible.

But still, I know a good book when I read one. This is a great book.

Hungry Monkey, as the subtitle suggests, is the story of trying to raise a kid to love food. Not to be a food snob. (I still hate the word foodie, but I'll forgive Matthew for using it.) Instead, Matthew reminds us all: "Food is fun, and you get to enjoy it three times a day, plus snacks!"

Matthew puts food on the table, good food, and Iris shares that food. It's not all duck confit made from scratch, although there is some of that (and we're excited about making duck hash soon). Matthew uses jarred baby food prunes to mix with Greek yogurt, frozen hash browns, and spinach in a bag. But he also makes Pad Thai for Iris, lobster rolls, and farfalle with tomato sauce and ham. That's one of the parts of his book I love — how real he is. There is no preaching, no hysterics about only using local and organic food, no advice. It's simply their story, which will make you laugh. And help you feed your kid (and possibly yourself) better as well.

When I read the first draft of this book, I wasn't pregnant yet. When I read the second draft, I was, barely. Now that the book is actually here, Little Bean is very much in the world, devouring food. Now that she is here, we've seen some of our lofty ideals shatter. What matters is getting food to her. Before she was born, we knew we didn't want to give her boring old brown rice cereal. Turns out she loves it. She also loves avocado, pulled pork, yams with ginger, and the eggs from my sister-in-law's chickens, scrambled in a little lard. Still, the only food she really loves is when we feed her from our spoons, when we're sharing a meal together.

Hungry Monkey informed me before we started to feed Little Bean. Matthew shows it, with Iris's story: there doesn't have to be baby food. Just feed kids what you eat. Expect them to be picky sometimes. (We're in the grace period right now, when Little Bean will eat anything.) Enjoy it. Don't worry so much.

I especially loved the chapter "You Fed Your Baby WHAT?" after Little Bean leaned out of my arms to eat head cheese, and then went back for more. Matthew also did his research, meticulously. You'll learn a lot from this book, without being aware that you're learning. I appreciated that, in particular, for this passage from the American Academy of Pediatrics in 2008:

"Although solid foods should not be introduced before 4 to 6 months of age, there is no current convincing evidence that delaying their introduction beyond this period has a significant protective effect on the development of atopic disease...This includes delaying the introductions of foods that are considered to be highly allergic, such as fish, eggs, and foods containing peanut protein."

For awhile, Danny and I had been cautiously avoiding all the possible allergens. After I read this passage to him, we relaxed. Little Bean enjoyed her first salmon yesterday. She sucks on lemons, avidly. And she laps up plain yogurt like it's the finest French chocolate.

(Still no gluten. Since celiac is an autoimmune disorder, not an allergy, and she has a 1 out of 22 chance of inheriting it, we are waiting awhile yet. And no peanuts. No thanks to the chance of anaphylactic shock.)

That's the effect Hungry Monkey will probably have on you, too. Informed relaxation, all while laughing.

Danny isn't much of a reader. He's a chef, someone who lives in his hands, a mover. But every morning for the past weeks, he has asked me to read him Hungry Monkey while he fed Little Bean or while we drove around town. He has laughed so hard his belly hurt, made dinners from the recipes in the book, and was genuinely sad when it was all over.

Even if you don't have a kid, and have no intention of one in your life, you're going to want to read this book. Hungry Monkey. Go out and buy it.

We have to give a copy of this book away. (And a lovely new hardcover, not this advance copy that Little Bean chewed to bits on the bottom.) If you'd like to own a copy of the book, leave a comment about the joys of feeding your own children, or your feelings about food when you were a kid. We'll choose the winner by random on Friday.

Alden's ice cream

2009-04-21T22:51:00.001-07:00

The air was warm today, but the day was not quite as idyllic as yesterday.

When we woke up, we noticed a few red bumps on Little Bean's face. Bug bites? She's outside often with us, and we don't believe in keeping her from putting her feet on the grass, to push the daisies around with her toes. Probably bug bites.

But then I looked at her again, a few minutes later, and several more rednesses had appeared on her white skin. I looked at her, and knew: chicken pox.

Danny had a case of the shingles a couple of weeks ago. (Not only did we have no idea what the shingles are, but we both thought that only decrepit old men suffered from the shingles.) Turns out the stress of moving home and having your child end up in the emergency room the next week can nudge the dormant virus that sprouts chicken pox on a child into a painful case of shingles as an adult. We were all a little mopey that week.

He's recovered. We're laughing and making videos again. And then, these dots.

Little Bean turned 9 months old today. (good god, how?) As Molly said to me on the phone, as we crossed the Sound on the ferry, "She's just celebrating her birthday with pink polka dots!"

That's our girl.

Our doctor confirmed it. She has the chicken pox. And luckily, her case is so mild that she's about as spotty as your average miserable teenager. She'll be fine, and back to sleeping, within days.

Still, it was a bit of a rough day. We spent the gorgeous spring day in ferry lines and an isolation room at the doctor's office, as though we had the plague. By the time we reached home, Little Bean was way past her bedtime and took two hours of coaxing, rocking, singing, and feeding before she went down to sleep.

Oh, this ice cream was especially welcome this evening.

Alden's ice cream is about the only commercial ice cream we buy anymore. They craft it in Eugene, Oregon, with only real ingredients. (You know, like cream and sugar and eggs and vanilla bean.) Obviously, the cookies n cream flavor is off-limits for us gluten-free folks. But the rest? Oh, they make up for that lack.

The vanilla bean truly tastes like vanilla. And it makes an excellent root beer float. The strawberry reminds me of June, those first berries of summer. Many folks espouse the beauties of the mint chocolate chip.

But this evening, we had a few scoops of the chocolate chocolate chip after Bean went to bed. A breeze blew in -- tomorrow will be rain. We had no idea if she would sleep, or if we would be up and down all night again. Not to worry. In that moment, we dipped our spoons in the rich ice cream and savored this imperfect world, again, together.

The Flavor Bible

2009-04-07T21:41:00.000-07:00

There are some books in your kitchen that sit there because they were presents, or the cover enticed with possible bites that would fill your life. Maybe you liked the photographs, or you were on a brief kick to eat more healthfully. Any reason could be true. But still, you know the books — the ones you never open. Maybe you made one recipe, once, and you knew you'd never be able to stomach that book again. It still sits there, but you'll never use it.

The Flavor Bible is not that book.

Since we bought this book, back in October, I'm pretty sure it has been opened every single day. I tried to take a beautiful photograph of it, but there's no taking away the smudged fingerprints and dented corners. We are often holding this book in our hands.

Years ago, this book would have intimidated me. There are no recipes. Every food is in alphabetical order, rather than being organized by type or style of cuisine. Before I met Danny, I would have looked at this book and put it away.

But he has taught me how to cook from feel, from experience, rather than from recipes alone. (I still use recipes, most of the time, but now they are only starting points, a gun going off toward the sky. I'm not nearly so straight-backed examining them, as I was before.) For that reason, this book is invaluable.

It's pretty funny, actually, watching Danny try to follow a recipe. A few months ago, when we were finishing up the first draft of our book, I asked him to make dinner with a recipe that looked good, to see how recipes are written, to judge what he wanted. He tried. He did. When I came into the kitchen after putting Little Bean down to sleep, I saw him hunched over the dishwasher, peering at the paper, scratching his head. He turned toward me. "I can't do it. I can see what she wants. But I want to do it differently."

He's the jazz musician. I'm the grammar teacher. I laughed and told him to go on his own.

That's why this book works for him, and more and more, for me now too.

Say you bought some ramps at the farmers' market (they're coming here soon), in your eagerness to celebrate spring. But when you are home, you realize — you have no idea what to do with them. Look up ramps in this book. What you'll find is a list of other foods that go particularly well with ramps: asparagus, bacon, butter, carrots, chicken, chives, cream, cured meats, etc. Some of the foods are in bold, meaning they go particularly well with ramps: Parmesan cheese, pasta, new potatoes. Hm. What to make?

Well, Danny has taught me to think creatively. It's April, so we want something light, not like the pot roasts and meatloaf nights of February. What's for dinner? What about rice pasta with roasted asparagus, sauteed ramps, prosciutto, and Parmesan cheese? Or, grilled halibut with black pepper-ramp puree? Or warm polenta with morel mushrooms and a creamy ramp sauce?

Actually, I'm hungry again. Those are all just ideas from looking at the ramp section of this book.

As well as listing ingredients that blend well with the food you have chosen, the book also offers suggestions of the season each food grows in and techniques that work well with it. Really, there's no way to go wrong.

If you are, unlike Danny, only able to cook with a recipe in front of you, this book may feel overwhelming. However, spend a little time with it, and you might just put those recipe books away. (Or at least at the other end of the kitchen.)

Would you like a copy of this book? We'd like you to have it. Leave a comment here, telling us about cooking in your kitchen, and how this book might help. By Friday, we'll pick a winner, randomly. The wonderful authors, Karen Page and Andrew Dornenburg, have agreed to send along a copy to whoever wins.

In addition to the book, we're having a giveaway on knives. The good folks at Messermeister read this post I wrote on their knives, and they would like to give some to you. In fact, they're giving away a chef's knife and kitchen scissors set. Leave a comment about that here as well. We'll have two winners this week!

Messermeister knives

2009-03-24T21:42:00.001-07:00

This past summer, just before Little Bean was born, the Chef and I went to a picnic in the park. We brought brownies, which were gobbled up immediately. No one knew they were gluten-free. No one cared.
In a rush before the party, we grabbed the first knife from the drawer for the cutting of the brownies. The sharp little knife that has Gluten-Free Girl emblazoned on the blade.
As someone lifted the dark brownies from the pan, she saw the writing on the blade of the knife underneath the chocolate. "Gluten-Free Girl? I've heard of her. Doesn't she have a blog?"
I sort of shyly raised my hand. "Yep. That's me."

That's the first (and hopefully the only) time I've been recognized via a knife.

The good folks at Messermeister knives sent me two knives, quite awhile ago. They asked if I'd try them. I like a good knife. I said yes. To my amusement (and a little embarrassment), both the chef's knife and paring knife had Gluten-Free Girl on the blades. Putting the knives on this site felt too self-referential. I didn't.

Life happened. A lot of life happened. (wedding, book tour, baby, move) Meanwhile, I've been using those knives -- and the julienne peeler they also sent me — nearly every day. The knives sit comfortably in my hand, with a heavy weight and a light blade. I feel powerful when I use them. Capable in the kitchen.

The writing has worn off. (You can still sort of see it if you squint.) But the knives have stayed in our kitchen, when others have gone away. I'm not sure what I'd do without these, and my white-handled Russell chef's knife (cost about $30), which feels as familiar in my hand as my baseball glove does about July. The sound of these knives tapping on the cutting board and the sight of them in the Chef's hand as he works are part of the daily beauty of my life.

If you're looking for a great knife you will use for years? Here you are.

What are your favorite kinds of knives?

Bariani olive oil

2009-03-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

These days, we don't have the same luxuries I lived by when I was single.

In my book, I wrote about sampling expensive bottles of olive oil, slowly, and sipping them in tastings on warm spoons. After much deliberation, I bought bottles the price of two tickets to the movies. (And we all know ridiculously expensive those are these days.) Well, I haven't been to a movie theater since Little Bean was born. And we're not buying expensive bottles of olive oil much anymore.

Certainly, the economy has its effect on all of us. But more importantly, I have learned more about food than I once knew. Before I met the Chef, I glugged olive oil onto everything, sautéeing all my food in those bottles quickly emptying of precious liquid. He gently led me to the bottles of canola, sunflower, and grapeseed oil instead. And back in the thick of making dishes all day long for the cookbook, the Chef and I bought giant cans of pure olive oil -- not as good as extra virgin, by any means, but serviceable for all the cooking we were doing.

Still, when a great olive comes through the door, we certainly don't say no.

Last month, Anita and Cameron from Married with Dinner came over for lunch. (I know. How lucky were we?) When they came in, both of them went right for Little Bean. But not before handing us a small bag, with a jar of rosemary salt from Eatwell Farms and a bottle of Bariani olive oil.

Oh, we love them. (I mean Anita and Cam. But also, those two ingredients.)

Bariani olive oil is something special. Crushed from Mission and Manzanilla olives, this is Italian olive oil grown outside Sacramento. The Bariani family comes from just outside of Lombardy, in northern Italy, and they brought traditional methods and a stubborn insistence on doing things right.

Thank you for those qualities.

This is such a lovely oil. It's green and silken, not assertive or peppery. Warm and robust, the Bariani olive oil tastes of hot summers and cool evenings, like the handmade press that crushes the fruit, like family business and the green drizzle of olive oil on good mozzarella at the end of a hot day of work. And really, given all this (and because we don't have to pay importing costs), Bariani olive oil is our favorite olive oil of the moment. Slightly more expensive than the cheap jugs at grocery stores, Bariani Olive Oil is pretty darned affordable for such fine oil.

Since olives don't grow in western Washington, we'll call this our local olive oil.

What is your favorite olive oil at the moment? The one that you can afford?

Secret Stash Sea Salts

2009-03-03T14:10:00.001-08:00

Remember the days when salt meant only the fine white stuff that poured from the blue cylinder? When I was a kid, I had never heard of sea salt, much less tasted sea salt flavored with coconut marsala.

Thanks goodness I'm not a kid anymore.

A few months ago, a friend walked into our home and stuffed my hands with little jars of colored salts. "Here. You have to try these!" In the midst of welcoming people, I nodded and smiled, looking askance at what appeared to be specimen jars filled with odd flavors. The salts were shoved to the back of the counter by the pile of arriving food and people's drinks splayed haphazardly about the kitchen. It was only days later that I remembered the salts.

"Bloody Mary?" I said to the Chef.
"That sounds weird," he harumphed. (He has a sort of stubborn wall up about new food sometimes, which I can tumble down, eventually. And it also allows me to use harumph as a verb.)
"Yeah, but think about it. Tomato, celery, cayenne pepper. You love those."
"Hm."

A few days later, I opened the Nicoise olive salt. Give me an olive, any time. I was poaching eggs for breakfast. At the last moment, I crushed some of the salt onto my eggs, leaving the Chef's bare. He noticed, right away.
"Want a taste of mine?"
He loved it. So did I.

Every salt in the Secret Stash collection, at least the ones we have tried, brings a surprise kick to the foods we make, a sort of ohhhhhh! in the mouth. That's because they're not flavored salts. They're infused with real food: vanilla beans; lemon zest; dried lavender; cumin; fresh pineapple juice; ground cardamom. Because the folks who make these salts are dedicated to doing this right, they don't use any preservatives or un-recognizeable ingredients. And no anti-caking agents, which is good news for those of us who are gluten-free. These are safe.

The people behind Secret Stash? Two folks, partners who worked in a Seattle restaurant that has now folded. Even in these economic times, they are trying hard to do what they love, live a life of food, and make a few moments taste better. Hm. Sounds like someone else I know. Of course we like them.

But the salts really are the story. The Chef ended up liking the Bloody Mary salt, after all. We've sprinkled a bit of vanilla salt on top of creme brulees for a surprising bite. I like lavender rosemary salt and jasmine rice. But I always go back to the nicoise olive, especially on the top of bread I've baked, just before pulling it out of the oven.

Food just tastes better with salt.

For those of you in Seattle, the Secret Stash folks have a stand at the Sunday Ballard farmers' market. If you're not from around here, then you can order on their website.

gluten-free Os cereal

2009-02-24T21:12:00.000-08:00

Little Bean loves to eat.

Of course, we were hoping this would be so. She has been in the kitchen with us since she was a mere mite. Nearly everything we cook we waft under her nose, so she can experience what we are eating through smell. But there are no guarantees in this. She could have easily decided that solid foods were scary and put off the chewing until later.

(And nothing says this avid eating of nearly everything we give her will last.)

She still doesn't have her first tooth, so the chewing is pretty gummy at the moment. Thick purees still seem best. (However, she did have some roasted pork shoulder, chopped into a paste that she seemed to really love.) Roasted sweet potatoes, crushed-up prunes, fresh avocado — these all make her giggle. Right now, they are enough.

But I was just starting to wonder — what are we going to do without Cheerios?

Right now, we don't know if Little Bean can eat gluten. You see, there is no accessible test to determine these matters yet, as far I can tell. There is a genetic test, to see if she has the genes that can lead to celiac. But those tests are expensive, and we just can't afford it. Even if she has the genes, she could go years eating gluten before the celiac triggers, through something mysterious like an injury, or puberty. So we don't know.

The image of giving her gluten ("Here, honey, have a hamburger with all the fixings.") feels like handing her the keys to the car when she's three. I don't want to do it.

But if she can gluten, I want her to experience all the food in the world she can eat. I want her to eat with relish and gusto, giggling as she reaches for another bite. That's how she eats now. I want that to continue.

The only plan we have, at the moment, is to wait. No seven-month-old will languish if she doesn't have barley cereal. Our doctor has told us that he receives an update on celiac and living gluten-free every single day, from the medical journals he reads and the conferences he attends. Maybe, by the time she is a year old, there will be a clearer path.

However, what were we going to do without little o-shaped cereal, just the right size for her fingers to grab on their own off her highchair?

Now, I don't have to think about it. The good folks at Nature's Path have made Organic Whole O's. Organic brown rice flour, organic corn flour, organic granulated sugar cane juice, pomegranate juice concentrate, and sea salt — these are the only ingredients. They're a heck of a lot healthier than those little chocolate chip cookies cereal. (Remember those? The only time I ate them was at 4:30 in the morning with a friend, because he had no other food in the house, and we were drunk. And I still thought they were awful.) And I actually love the crisp, oh-s0-slightly sweet taste of the Whole O's.

This is a cereal I'll be happy to give Little Bean. Just as soon as she has teeth.

(Any day now. Come on, little one. Pop that tooth out, please?)

The School of Essential Ingredients

2009-02-17T21:16:00.000-08:00

Before last week, I had not finished a single book since Little Bean was born.

This is, for me, an utterly astounding sentence. I used to read the way I breathed air: continuously, sometimes quickly, sometimes slow and consciously, always. I used to read while walking down the street, brushing my teeth, and sitting at red lights in the car. I grew so attached to the world within the covers of books that I deliberately slowed down when I loved one, for fear that it would end soon. When I finally finished Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, I actually flung it against the wall and shouted, "F_ you for being done!" (Truly, I loved that book.)

So, to go almost a year without reading a book all the way through? Goodness, who is this?

Hi, I'm a mama. And a writer.

There are no more languid hours, the way I had when I was a kid, bending my back over the arm of the couch, the book over my head, to catch the dying light in the sky by which I was reading. Now, I have half-open books perched on surfaces around the house. I've been waiting for some time without writing a book to get back to them.

Now that I have done this twice, I know: I can't read books when I'm in the middle of writing one. Words bleed into my sentences, ones I had never considered before. Phrases I read on white paper make it onto my screen before I notice fully, and then I have to erase. Magazine articles, the newspaper cover to cover, essays in books, and an endless array of oddities online? I haven't stopped those. But entire books? Nope.

Not until last week, when I sat down while Little Bean was napping, and read The School of Essential Ingredients in a day and a half. And when I closed the last page, slowly, I grew a little teary that I had finished it so soon.

I don't want to tell you too much, because you might want to read it yourself. Just know that the story circles through a cooking school, run by a woman named Lillian who has a calm demeanor, capable hands, and an understanding for people that comes from her past. Stories emerge with each class, from homemade pasta and chocolate cake. Not that much happens, in the Hollywood sense, but everything rumbles under the surface, in the glacial way that human relations actually happen.

And the way that Erica Bauermeister describes food — slow and sensuous, filled with poignancy and a sense of presence — made me lift up my eyes and take them in. And they made me hungry.

I read this book as I slipped under the hot waters of a bath. I picked it up as Little Bean napped, my hands curved around a hot cup of coffee. And I devoured the last pages in the warm lamplight of the living room, on the end of the couch where I fed Little Bean just a few hours before.

I finally read an entire book. This one was such a wonderful warmth and loveliness to begin it all again.

p.s. I believe in sharing, especially because plenty of us cannot afford new hardback books these days. So I'm giving away my copy, now that I have finished it. Leave a comment here, and make sure I have some way of reaching you. The Chef and I will randomly select a number at the end of the week and choose one of you! We'll put the book in the mail, with a little present for you from us.

GaGa sherbet

2009-02-10T13:27:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry to so easily fall into the pun the makers of this delicious concoction clearly want us to use, but we are honestly gaga about this stuff.

Do you know why I don't have a photograph of the creamy, tart lemon goodness in a bowl, slightly melting, so as to entice you to bite into it? Because the Chef and I ate all four pints the company sent us before we even thought of photographing them. Nights in a row, we'd settle down to watch Jon Stewart as Little Bean slept, and he'd look at me and say, "Do you want some of that sherbet stuff?" Of course. And we'd dig our two spoons into the carton, determined to not eat the entire pint, and failed every time.

I'm lucky I could save the carton for photographing.

Is it sherbet? No. Sherbet contains milk, but not cream, and not enough to call it ice cream. But proper ice cream contains eggs, and this does not. So it's a hybrid, something in between, all its own.

Just call it amazing and put some in your freezer. It won't last long.

"Creamy lovely goodness," the Chef just said, when I asked him to describe it. "It should be illegal." Tell truth, he's so obsessed with GaGa that he's making a citrus sherbet in the kitchen right now, trying to replicate it. He's good, but I don't know if he'll do it, right off the bat. There's some magic elixir in this, something mysterious that makes you eat an entire pint of the creamy sweetness in one sitting.

All the ingredients are natural, not indecipherable. The lemon flavor really does taste like lemon, with a puckery tartness. It's a family-begun business (the name comes from the nickname for the grandmother). And it's gluten-free.

Right now, GaGa is not available in Seattle. If you live here, ask your grocer for it, now. If you live somewhere where GaGa is available, then what are you doing reading this? Run out and buy some now.

GaGa Frozen Dessert

gluten-free ice cream cones

2008-09-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

On the last day of our honeymoon in Italy, the Chef and I stopped for one more gelato in Rome. After savoring every bite of that pistachio in a cone, I looked at the countertop and stopped breathing for a moment. "Il Cono per Tutti" — a cone for all. A gluten-free ice cream cone, in a gelato place, in Rome.

I ordered another gelato, just to have the experience.

And when we left, I thought, "Of course, I'm only going to find something like that in Italy."

So, imagine my surprise last weekend, when I stood in a dinky grocery store in Burien (a city just south of Seattle), looked at the shelves, and stopped breathing for a moment. "Gluten-free ice cream cones?!" I shouted out to the Chef. I grabbed one immediately.

We were waiting, in that store near the airport, for the Chef's brother, who was stocking up on groceries for his trip to Whistler. We had never been in that store. We might never have seen these.

A few nights later, I had the chance to try one. The Chef and I curled up on the couch to watch a movie, and I had the sudden urging for an ice cream cone. Not expecting much, I crunched down on the shell after licking around the vanilla.

"Oh good god," I blurted out.

"What?" the Chef worried.

"This ice cream cone. It actually tastes good."

After watching me exclaim about the sweetness from the demerara sugar (no high fructose corn syrup), the way the cone didn't shatter at the slightest touch, and the joys of eating an ice cream cone again, for the first time in years, the Chef sat up and walked to the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" I asked him.

"I can't stand it any longer. I have to have an ice cream cone too."

He has pronounced them delicious, much better than the tasteless cones we all ate as kids. (Think scary clown on the box.) These taste like real food.

I never did have an ice cream craving while I was pregnant. But thanks to these cones, I have one now.

These are new to the market, produced by Edward and Sons Trading Company. I hear they're soon to be available widely, but I can't promise where you'll find them. Ask around. They're worth the search. It seems the Gluten-Free Trading Company has some available online right now.

Pacific Lady

2008-09-17T20:49:00.000-07:00

I don't know the first thing about sailing. In fact, I've only been on a sailboat twice in my life. Once some friends of mine heard that I had never been sailing, they blindfolded me and guided me down a dock. When I opened my eyes, we were on a sailboat at sunset, on Lake Union in Seattle. We sauntered on the water while eating cheese and drinking wine until the sun fell and the air grew chilled. And then we went in.

The second time was much the same. I've never been on waters with any chop.

It's quite clear that Sharon Sites Adams's experience was nothing like this.

Pacific Lady is the story of this indomitable woman who, for reasons that remain somewhat mysterious, decided in the early 1960s to start sailing across the world. Alone. After her divorce, she had about as much experience on sailboats as I have. But something within her insisted that she change her life. In 1969, she sailed from Japan to California, by herself, in 74 days.

Good god.

It's an incredible story. Still, you could not have told me, when I first picked up the book, that I would be riveted by it. As fascinating as the story goes, Karen Coates is the woman who breathed the wind into those sails.

If you don't know her work already, Karen Coates is the Asia correspondent for Gourmet magazine. Her writing, incisive and sometimes haunting, always makes me hungry. The deeper feeling, however, is of something opening. When I read her brilliant blog, Rambling Spoon, I feel transported to a world I might never know personally. And her words, along with the searing photographs of her husband, don't point to a glossy-magazine lifestyle. Recently, she wrote about witnessing an exorcism in a tiny village on the India-Nepal border. Reading that, you know there's an entirely different Asia than the shiny image portrayed in the Olympics.

Mostly, Karen stops me with her writing. I'm always left feeling like the world is wider, and I am much smaller, after reading her insights.

So it makes sense to me now that Karen could bring Sharon Sites Adams's story so to life in my mind. I'm left, many months after first reading this book, with the expansive sense of the ocean. All that immensity. One lone woman on the edge of the earth.

If you buy this book — and I hope you do — you might notice a familiar name on the back cover. Karen asked me to write a quote in support of the book. I might as well share that with you here, to entice you to buy it:

"Pacific Lady tugged at me from the opening story. Even though I know nothing about sailint and solo ocean crossings, I was mesmerized by Sharon Sites Adams's determination, curiosity of the world, and intrepid spirit. When she embarked on her trip across the Pacific Ocean alone, I simply could not put down the book until I knew that she had made it safely home. Karen Coates has done a graceful job of translating this singular story into spare, elegant prose. I will never forget it."

You may not be interested in sailing either. But this book? You'll be fascinated by Pacific Lady.

gluten-free, dairy-free cookie dough "ice cream"

2008-09-15T19:38:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Manhattan, I didn't spend many evenings at home. Evenings in little clubs on the Lower East Side, good sushi, and movies with friends at the Lincoln Plaza cineplex meant I came home in time to eat something and fall into bed most nights. New York is not where you live if you're a homebody.

But when Sharon moved into my apartment, we found ourselves, at least once a week, exhausted from all our adventures. That's when we'd take the elevator down to the lobby, walk across the street, and saunter into our corner bodega.

"I'm getting Cherry Garcia. What are you getting?"

I never knew. Sometimes I'd buy that too. Or Chunky Monkey. Often, it was cookie dough, though.

We'd hold the cold pints in our hands and walk into the warm night air. Up the elevator, and into her room, where we'd sit on her queen-sized bed and watch whatever bad tv presented itself on cable that night. We needed the down time.

There's something funny about my friend Sharon. She's fit and thin, in better shape than most people I know. But she has never, to my knowledge, eaten a pint of ice cream in more than one sitting. When we sat on that bed, watching movies, she always dove and scraped, swirling the spoon and lifting it to her mouth with passionate alacrity. Me? I took small bites, and tried to control myself.

She always enjoyed hers more.

But somehow, the guilt of eating an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting always stopped me from making all that goodness disappear immediately.

Until I found Purely Decadent Cookie Dough, that is.

The good folks at Turtle Mountain sent me some of their dairy-free treats to try. I have to admit -- dairy-free ice cream didn't appeal to me much. I don't have to avoid dairy. Why try the imitation stuff?

But there was gluten-free cookie dough involved. And that I don't see very often.

So I tried a spoonful. And then another. The icy part felt rich in the mouth. And the cookies? Oh, I hadn't eaten cookies in ice cream since one of those pints at the bodega.

I'm going to admit this — I ate the entire pint in one sitting.

And every time I've bought this non-dairy treat, I have done it again. That's why I don't buy it that often. Because it's clear I'm going to be imitating Sharon and sitting on the bed with my spoon, diving and scraping, and making it all disappear.

How often does gluten-free and dairy free taste like this?

Chebe focaccia

2008-08-19T20:21:00.000-07:00

I first tasted this lovely gluten-free focaccia on a bitter cold night in Breckenridge, Colorado. Lovely as the Chef's small hometown is, it didn't strike me, at first, as the hotbed of gluten-free eating. How wrong I was. Even the tiniest grocery store stocked items new to me on their spare shelves. We picked up a package of this and took it to the Chef's sister's house to make with dinner.

I've been buying packages ever since.

Chebe makes wonderfully decent mixes of gluten-free bread products. Their main flour is manioc, and the bread is meant to remind us of the Brazilian "pao de queijo" (the little cheese puffs I first encountered in New York, at Puff and Pao). With a slightly coarser texture than most gluten-free flours, manioc has a distinctive taste: slightly nutty, with a tiny tang. I love that Chebe has dedicated itself to only making mixes with this flour. They've cornered the manioc market.

I like the breadsticks. I haven't had the courage to try the cinnamon rolls yet, but other people have told me to stop being so silly. And the original bread mix, the one that makes the cheese puffs, works every time.

But I like the focaccia best. Yesterday, I spontaneously stirred up some batter from the package sitting in the cupboard, on the shelf above the coffee. When I pulled it warm out of the oven, the Chef remarked how good this chewy bread with a solid crunch on the edges would taste with a couple of eggs over easy. But we never made it that far. We just ate the entire little focaccia bread over the time it took us to read the newspaper, tearing off hunks of the fragrant herby snack and talking slowly. "This reminds me of good sausages," he said.

He's right.

I might just make some more tomorrow.

O.N.E. coconut water

2008-08-12T18:56:00.000-07:00

The internet cracks me up.

A couple of months ago, I wrote a little post on the original site about fruit salad. Tucked into the headnote of how to prepare the salad was a little description of coconut water:

The other day, I found a can of coconut water at one of my favorite grocery stores, and so I brought it home. It's light, barely sweet, so refreshing when cold. When I poured a bit over the fruit, everything seemed to come together more completely. It's not necessary, by any means, but you might like to try it too.

The next morning, when I woke up, I found an email from someone at O.N.E., saying she had read that little description and was delighted I liked coconut water. Would I like a case of theirs to try?

Now, I have to say, the alacrity with which this happened made me laugh. And I'm a little skeptical about free stuff. But the email was personal, and we were heading into the heat of summer. Sure, why not?

I had no idea how handy this coconut water would become.

Before the Chef and I went to the hospital to meet Little Bean, we packed a cooler full of food and drinks. I had been told we wouldn't be able to find gluten-free food from the hospital dining service. (This was erroneous information. They had a gluten-free menu.) So we planned ahead. On the hottest days of the summer, I had drunk a couple of the coconut waters. Everything felt refreshed in me. So we packed the last of the case in the cooler.

After my surgery, I heaved with nausea at times. The iv drip hurt my hand. I felt woozy and in pain. As soon as I remembered the electrolytes in the coconut water, I asked for one. Ten minutes later, I felt clear again.

And in the succeeding days, when everything felt woozy and in pain, while we stayed with our daughter in the ICU, I drank the remaining coconut waters, trying to be well.

I won't say these healed me. They just felt cold and good against my lips. There wasn't much pleasure to those days. Drinking these was one of the few sensory moments that remains untouched with fear.

They may have sent me a free case, but I'm buying more for myself.

Mariposa Bakery pizza

2008-07-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

Do you live in the Bay Area? Gluten-free? Are you missing pizza?

Well, then for goodness' sake, head over to Mariposa Bakery.

When we were in Oakland, I was utterly thrilled to make an appearance for the book at this marvelous bakery. But mostly, I was excited to see the behind-the-scenes look at the bakery that makes gorgeous biscotti and brownies, available at most Whole Foods across the country now.

The people there are just lovely. Couldn't be lovelier. And when they took the Chef and me on the tour of the facilities, I had to stop myself from yelling out, "Hey, you can't cut that pizza on a wooden table. Wood traps gluten." Just a moment later, they told me, of course, that the table was brand new when they bought it. What a relief to be in a place we can trust is safe, down to where the pizza crust meets the table.

When I was there in November, the women at Mariposa Bakery were not shipping pizzas, because they wanted people to come in and have them fresh. It looks from the website that they have found the best of all worlds. Now, they ship their plain pizza crusts and let you do the rest of the work.

These are good.

Still, if you find yourself in Oakland, stop in for a pizza in this warm, airy bakery. You'll feel such a sense of ease that rarely comes from eating in a restaurant.

mariposa baking company
5427 telegraph ave, unit d3
oakland, ca 94609
tel: 510.595.0955

McQuade's chutney

2008-07-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

Back in November — in what feels like another lifetime — the Chef and I had a day off from the book tour stop in the Bay Area. Our dear friend Tea took us on a drive out to Marin, to sample local cheeses, to watch cows in green pastures, to talk about great food and eat it in the next moment.

In one of the more idyllic hours of the trip, we stopped near the water, at Hogg Island Oysters. We ate the oysters that the Chef shucked for us, in the moment. We had a spontaneous gathered picnic, with the last of the year's tomatoes, fresh persimmons, and so much goodness that every bite tasted different.

But one of the bites I remember best was a gluten-free cracker and soft cheese, topped with a dollop of McQuade's moray fig and ginger chutney. This chutney was snappy with spicy ginger, a dreamy sweetness with the fig, and so many spices and flavors that we couldn't even name them all, not all three food-loving people combined. That says something.

McQuade's chutneys are wonderful. That sentence seems a little flat in comparison with the zing of these tastes, but it will have to do. Just look at the possibilities:

Glasgow spiced apple chutney
Lankashire sun-dried tomato chutney
Elgin habanero chutney

And that is just the start.

I adore the fact that the company lists all the ingredients on the website, so those of us with allergies, food intolerances, and autoimmune disorders feel safe.

And it looks like they will be taking online orders soon. Yippee!

So rush right over and try to buy some.

Just after our Bay Area trip, and that idyllic day in nature, Little Bean was conceived. Who knows? Maybe it had something to do with the chutney.

Jessie Oleson from Cakespy

2008-07-11T20:34:00.000-07:00

Oh, Jessie Oleson from Cakespy, I do so love your whimsical art.

Now, this might seem weird to gluten-free readers. Why in heavens would I recommend a website that glorifies the cupcakes, that sings the praises of bakeries around the world, and brings an overwhelming sense of glee of all that is sweet and baked? Well, you might not want to click on the main website, if you are feeling too down about not eating gluten. (For those of us are who are more hardy, it's difficult not to feel the enthusiasm in the photos and words.)

Instead, I'd like to direct you to Jessie's Etsy shop, which is a dangerous place to browse if you are trying to not spend money. Look at this Matisse-inspired watercolor, with naked bodies dancing around a pink cupcake. Or this painting of a cupcake and hot dog, either having a lively conversation or a therapy session. But I have to admit that I am partial to this Mama and Baby cupcake. Look how the little cupcake has its own sling!

If you are looking for more than paintings, check out this site for t-shirts, mugs, and mouse pads, all dazzlingly sweet and covered in cupcakes.

Hey, maybe all those cupcakes are secretly gluten-free! It's possible, after all.

Jennie's coconut macaroons

2008-07-09T20:25:00.001-07:00

It took my friend Booth being diagnosed with celiac for me to discover these.

After Booth had given up gluten, I met Nina at one of our favorite grocery stores in Seattle to roam the aisles and find him food he would like. I pointed out all the little bags of flours, the foods that might have hidden gluten, the brands of foods with few ingredients that I genuinely like to eat.

She waved her hand toward a can of Jennie's coconut macaroons and said, "Of course, you know about these macaroons. Booth can't get enough of them."

Actually, I had never seen them before. I love this learning.

These macaroons are the talk of the internet, apparently. People love them because they are made without grains or sugar. Some folks are feeding them to their babies. Fans promote them because they are full of proteins and fiber, seemingly without any bad stuff.

Seemingly is probably the operative word. I'm still more likely to make food from scratch than grab a can. The zero-carb version of these cookies (which I've never seen, and am unlikely to buy) contain maltitol, which makes some people uncomfortable. I wouldn't claim these as a health food. They are cookies, after all.

I just like them because they taste good. And no matter how much you love food in its whole form, sometimes you like gluten-free food you can buy off the shelf.

Now, I have to admit, they might be just a touch too sweet for me. I'm not the proper judge right now, because I seem to have lost my sweet tooth during this pregnancy. But they taste moist and wholesome, with a real flavor all their own.

And since I can't eat the whole can in two days, I like to put them in the freezer. Each bite feels like a little treat this way, and the sweetness isn't quite as pronounced.

I never thought I would like cookies from a can. But here they are. You will too, I'm sure.

Rice Chex

2008-07-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

How many of you ate Chex party mix as a kid? I did.

When my parents had friends over — for pool parties or poker games — they always put out a big bowl of the stuff. Several kinds of Chex cereals, cashews or peanuts, pretzels, maybe some of those goldfish crackers, all mixed together with butter and soy sauce. Say what you want about how abominable the stuff really was, but it was addictive. I constantly wandered into the living room to steal handfuls before heading back to the bedroom to read comic books with my brother.

I must admit — I hadn't thought about Chex mix for years, or particularly missed it. After I went gluten-free, there was no chance of something with Wheat Chex in it. But earlier this year, when I read that Rice Chex had gone gluten-free, I grabbed a big box at the supermarket. How could I not?

This is one of the biggest mainstream companies to go gluten-free, and to do so with a flourish. The outside of the box pronounces, with a red check: gluten-free! This alone makes me happy.

And heck, the Chex website has a page of gluten-free recipes for this sturdy cereal.

Here's the thing. This isn't my favorite cereal in the world. It feels healthy and the same as always. And I'm probably not going to be making Muddy Buddies any time soon. But this is big.

When you start to see yourself portrayed in the mainstream, you feel more accepted.

Sunny Valley Wheat Free scones

2008-07-04T11:03:00.001-07:00

We had a lovely party the other day, in the backyard during scorching heat. I'd call it a baby shower -- technically, it was, since dear friends were there to celebrate the impending arrival of Little Bean -- but we didn't play any games with balloons under the shirt or ribbons made into a hat. (god forbid that awful one involving a melted Snickers and a diaper.) Instead, dozens of us — men and women both — sat under the shade trees, told stories, and ate great food.

My good friend Karen arrived with a big box of scones in her hands. She has to eat gluten-free as well, so I knew she hadn't just stopped at a bakery at the last moment. "I found these at this gluten-free bakery in Maple Valley. We just happened to stop through there, and I couldn't resist."

"Oh, you mean Sunny Valley Wheat Free?"

"Yeah!" she exclaimed. "How did you know?"

A few months ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Deann Schoeler, the brainstorm behind the bakery, at a gluten-free event here in town. She's lovely, and the few goods of hers I tried that day made me want to visit the store. But a certain little someone growing larger prevented the trip over there.

But Karen brought me scones.

Believe it or not, there was so much food piled on the picnic table that afternoon that I didn't have the chance to eat a scone. By the evening, some of the icing had melted, so I put the plastic container in the freezer.

Oh yeah.

I think these are probably best straight from the freezer. One afternoon, I left a scone out to see what it might taste like thawed. The cranberry orange taste was sharp and lively, but the scone turned into little crumbs all around me. They're better from the freezer — they don't actually freeze — where the texture maintains its integrity.

I'm usually not a fan of white rice flour and tapioca baked goods. They strike me as starchy, and the remnants of each bite cling to the teeth. But these scones feel different. They hold up. Their simplicity lets the flavors shine through.

Little Bean has been enjoying these. Thank goodness I am finished with the carton soon. I haven't eaten this much sugar through the entire pregnancy. But I just can't resist reaching into the freezer for a scone I can eat.

Check out the Sunny Valley online shopping site. Even if you live far away from Seattle, and you don't have a friend to bring you scones, you might want to buy some of these.

Rancho Gordo beans

2008-07-02T19:45:00.001-07:00

I never knew I could feel so passionately about beans.

Rancho Gordo beans are the best I have ever eaten. Yes, I adore the story of how Steve Sando started saving heirloom varieties of beans from New Mexico and Central America, growing them before they died out entirely. And I feel grateful for the tried and true recipes featured on their website, which have always worked for me. (Our friend Nina created a mole sauce from a Rancho Gordo recipe, and we all licked our lips as we ate the chicken she had barbequed with it.) And in the end, all those beans are so pretty.

But really, what matters to me most? All that work and passion, the dedication and experimentation has produced some of the best beans I have ever tasted. Canned beans will never be the same, like a shadow self imagined instead of a real, imperfect person standing before us. Try some, and you'll see.

Last month, I ordered the European sampler for our house. The Borlotti and Scarlet Runner beans are so pretty in the jars I arranged on the shelves that I'm tempted just to save them.

But when Rancho Gordo beans taste this good, I can guarantee you those jars will be empty soon.

Bob's Red Mill gluten-free oats

2008-07-01T17:24:00.000-07:00

While I am eternally grateful for everything Bob's Red Mill makes — what would I do without all those little bags of flour lined up on grocery shelves, accessible? — I feel most blessed for these. Gluten-free oats.

I have already written about why we need certified gluten-free oats, the glorious return of oatmeal cookies, and all the options available to us. So I won't repeat myself.

I'm just ready to declare a favorite.

After testing and tasting all the gluten-free oats, I can proclaim loudly that I'm loyal to Bob's Red Mill gluten-free oats. They took such trouble to certify that these oats will be safe for those of us who suffer from celiac. Look at this blurb from their website:

"Our Gluten Free Rolled Oats are pure. They are grown by over 200 farmers on clean, dedicated oat-growing fields. They plant only non-GMO "pedigreed" seed stock. Each farm delivery is sampled hundreds of times and tested with an R5 ELISA gluten test to ensure the absence of gluten. Advanced color-sorting removes undetected impurities. Roasting enhances that wholesome, robust flavor you expect. The oats are packaged in our new, 100% gluten free facility and tested for gluten again to ensure their purity."

Yeah, Bob!

(I met Bob himself, when I was in Portland with my book. He's a fabulous, cantankerous, just-what-you-expect-from-the-photograph character. Who wouldn't want to support his endeavors?)

But it's more than that. These oats are thick, hearty, and beam with real taste. Before I had to go gluten-free, I chose Bob's regular oats for my daily breakfast. Finally, after all this time, I can just go back to eating oatmeal.

Because, other than certifying that these oats are grown, transported, and processed in an entirely gluten-free fashion, Bob's Red Mill has produced superlative oats. They don't turn to mush when you cook them. Every morning is a robust taste sensation. I love settling into my seat on the couch, my feet propped up on the coffee table, and digging my spoon into a bowl full of blueberries, cinnamon, walnuts, and these oats.

And there are steel-cut oats too! Soon, I'm going to start grinding those into my own oat flour.

These gluten-free oats are so popular that stores have a hard time keeping them on the shelves. Do yourself a favor —order some directly from Bob, today.

Señor Moose

2008-06-27T09:57:00.000-07:00

It took Tea moving to Seattle for me to find one of my favorite Mexican places in my own city.

After only a few weeks here, my friend kept raving about this little place, Señor Moose. Heavens knows I adore Mexican food, so I was compelled to go. However, I grew up on Tex Mex — giant platters of rice, beans, and burritos, covered with glurby melted cheese. Until I try a new restaurant, that's always what I'm expecting.

Thank goodness Señor Moose is much, much better than that expected disappointment. The food tastes homey and authentic, the kind of dishes that a Mexican mama might make in a back kitchen, with years of memory in her hands.

Check out their website and you'll read this:

"From moment one I have written down recipes, watched and made notes as I have talked to women in fondas (small homey restaurants) road side places, houses and markets, most often in the states of Michoacan, Jalisco and Nayarit as well as in Mexico City.

I have been fortunate to have had wonderful creative women helping me in the house who cooked with what there was that day, what was interesting at the market, food they prepared for their families from memory, recipes from mothers, grandmothers and aunts."

That's my kind of food, people.

What I love about Señor Moose — besides the sun-warmed sienna walls, the shelves of kitschy Mexican knick-knacks, and the fine company I always find there — is eating dishes entirely new to my Mexican cuisine sensibility. Have you ever eaten Filete Enchocolatado from Oaxaca? Let me quote from the menu: "Strips of skirt steak sautéed and finished with bitter chocolate, white wine and onion. Served with mashed potatoes and calabacitas guisadas." We never ate like this when I was growing up. Of course, for folks in Oaxaca, this is probably comfort food.

For the most part, it's fairly easy to eat gluten-free in a Mexican restaurant. But you still have to ask. Not everything at Señor Moose is gluten-free. The mole is traditional, and thus has some white bread in it. One of the dishes is flavored with beer. And because the chefs at Señor Moose are trying to make the most sensational tastes they can, they fry the tortilla chips fresh, in the same oil as other breaded items. That makes them off-limits to those of us who have to eat entirely gluten-free.

But you won't feel deprived. There is so much more to eat. And every time I have eaten at Señor Moose, the waitresses and chefs have been solicitous and careful for me. No one has ever made me feel like an outsider there for asking questions.

I just sit back and sigh over my food, feeling safe and well-fed.

Señor Moose Café
5242 NW Leary Ave
Seattle, WA 98107
(206) 784-5568

Breakfast:
Everyday 8am-3pm
Dinner:
Sunday-Thursday 5pm-9pm
Friday-Saturday 5pm-10pm

Little Flower Sea Salt Caramels

2008-06-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

Every time I go to Los Angeles, Sharon and I traipse around the corner from her apartment within the first hour of my being there. We're headed to the Silverlake Cheese Store, of course. Perhaps we want some aged gouda, or a handful of olives, a wedge of soprasseta. Who knows what fancy will strike us?

But one purchase is certain. A bag of sea salt caramels, made by the Little Flower Candy Company.

Ay god, I love these. Chewy, with a faint sweetness, a tug like taffy on the teeth, and then a small wave of saltiness, like ocean water that pierces through pursed lips. I adore sweet and salt, and these candies hit that magic balance better than any one I've tasted.

It's worth a visit to Sharon just to eat some. Luckily for us, you can also order them online.

The Sensitive Baker

2008-06-25T09:08:00.000-07:00

Sharon and I shared the joy of sitting at The Sensitive Baker, the sweetest little gluten-free bakery in Los Angeles (well, Culver City, technically). I smiled for two hours straight, with the chance to meet so many of you. And as much as I focus first on the foods that are naturally gluten-free, I sank my teeth into warm gluten-free breadsticks, just out of the oven, and sighed with pleasure.

Everyone who came in looked happy, and everyone who left having eaten looked even happier.

Il Macchiolo pasta

2008-06-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

My favorite gluten-free pasta of all time is a rice pasta from Italy, called Il Macchiaiolo. Soft and pliable, with a long stretch shape to hold sauces, this is impeccable pasta. Made by artisans, Il Macchiaiolo has been brought into the US by the good folks at Ritrovo.

Ilyse and Ron bring beautiful foods from Italy — mostly organic and made in the tradition of grandfathers — to us lucky enough in the US to find them. And to my surprise and honor, they recently asked me if they could put a sticker on the packages of the rice pasta: Recommended by the Gluten-Free Girl. Of course.

This means that when I go to a grocery store here in Seattle, I reach for the rice pasta, and then stop. I laugh. This cracks me up. Recommended by me, bought by me.

Really, I do recommend it.

Superhero Designs necklaces

2008-06-25T08:28:00.000-07:00

I don't really buy jewelry. I've tried twice to pierce my ears, and over time I always seem to let the holes grow in again. Over the years I've owned a series of big rings — the ones that make a statement with size and color on the right hand — and then put them away. About the only piece of jewelry I wear is my plain silver wedding band now.

And two necklaces by Andrea at Superhero Designs.

Last year, I fell in love with Andrea's sense of color and whimsy, her open-hearted writing on her blog, and the pictures of her baby son. This woman knows how to live, imperfectly, and out loud. After reading her posts for a time, and feeling a sense of communion, I ordered a necklace, for my wedding with the Chef.

I chose one called Grass and Sky. Blue sky is one of the symbols of our love, and we would be married in our backyard, on the grass (and eventually in bare feet). Nature and connection. It felt right.

When it arrived, that necklace felt even more right. Andrea had found a gorgeous glass stone, in the shape of a red heart. It dangled down from my throat. I fell in love.

And in the flurry and funny details going wrong the morning of the wedding, I forgot to put it on. Damn.

But I have worn it on every special occasion since. At book launch parties, and speaking engagements, and television appearances — and more important, private moments, like the first time we visited our obstetrician to see if everything was okay with our Little Bean.

So I figured that one necklace I adore, and knew I would be wearing for the rest of my life, was probably enough.

But then I saw that Andrea was making this bullseye necklace. That one had to be mine as well.

If you don't know why the bullseye means so much to me, read this post.

I have a feeling that this plain, silver necklace is what I will be wearing when our baby is born into the world.

bacon from A & J Meats

2008-01-30T19:24:00.000-08:00

For the past ten months, we have been on the search for the perfect bacon. We've tried organic bacon, applewood smoked bacon, bacon from Whole Foods, bacon from the Market, imported bacon, and the cheapest bacon available at the grocery store down the street. They have all pleased us — it is bacon — but not one has been the platonic ideal of bacon that our mouths have been imagining.

Why is it that we sometimes have to go so far from home before we realize what we have?

A & J Meats sits six blocks from our home. When I walk into the wood-panelled room with glass display cases, I feel like I have walked into a butcher’s shop from the 1950s. The tops of the cases are lined with bottles of locally made tartar sauce, barbeque spices in tins, and an old-fashioned ticket dispenser for the customers who throng into the place. Milling about the store are neighborhood moms and dads, their toddlers running toward the hot dogs. If it is Saturday morning, then the woman in her eighties comes in for a single lamb chop; she is given preferential treatment, because she has been a customer at the shop longer than some of the butchers have been working there. Behind the counters walk friendly men and women in crisp white aprons, ready with smiles and advice. I ask my favorite butchers — one of whom is a woman — what is good that day. This curiosity and trust led me to cook my first flank steak, pork tenderloin, and duck breast. Every time, the butchers walked me through the process of searing or roasting, both with their handouts copied on colored paper and their murmured words of encouragement. Even if the meat shrink-wrapped in supermarkets is slightly cheaper, the personal service I receive at A&J’s is worth the extra cost.

And the bacon? Oh, the bacon. It is dense with meaty flavor — how do I name the flavor of bacon? smoky? earthiness? a certain chew? In the days when I was a teacher, I probably would have brought bacon in for my students and asked them to chew some and describe it. But me? I'm stymied. There's some elusive depth that is beyond my comprehension. Maybe that's why I go back to it. Exploring the infinite wisdom of bacon.

Have you ever noticed how much fat is in commercial bacon? Some brands, it seems that each slice is swathed with white fat, with only a thin thread of pink meat to make it seem that you are eating bacon. But A and J's? Well, look at it. Of all the bacons I have eaten lately, this one is the most bacony.

The other day, when I stopped by for another half pound, I asked a silly question of one of the butchers. "Where do you find this stuff?"

He looked up at me, puzzled, and then said, "We make it ourselves." Take some pork belly, brine it in sugar and spices, let it sit, and then slice it thick.

Oh that's right. Every butcher used to do this — make their own meat.

If you live in Seattle, no matter what part, it's worth a trip to A and J's. Aside from the apricot pork sausage and the house-cured brisket and the top sirloin so juicy it just glistens? You really just need to buy some bacon.

In fact, with all this writing, I just figured out what we're having for breakfast tomorrow.

Beneficial Design

2008-01-30T19:21:00.000-08:00

For the past couple of months, I have had the pleasure of working with Kaytlyn Sanders, who runs Beneficial Design. We met after I put up a little ad on Craigslist, asking for help. There were numbers of offers. When I met her at my local organic coffee house, I knew within two minutes that she was the right one. That's how the best people seem to enter my life — immediately and deeply. Her open eyes, gentle laughter, and keen design sense made me feel comfortable. This website is my baby. I knew I could hand it over to her without fear that she would drop it.

We have been conferring over emails and cups of coffee, laughing at life and becoming friends, in the process. She's lovely. She understood that I wanted a clean, clear look, with plenty of white space, and a readable font. (finally!) I had taken this website as far as I could, alone. But now, I know: there's no need to go it alone anymore.

Without Kaytlyn, this website simply couldn't exist.

Super Natural Cooking

2008-01-30T19:18:00.000-08:00

If you still have the idea that grains other than wheat are "weird," that healthful food has to be boring, and that only out-of-fashion old hippies eat wild rice and millet, then you need to change your mind.

Luckily, Heidi Swanson will change your mind.

You may already know Heidi from 101 Cookbooks, or Mighty Foods, two of my favorite food websites. I've beeen an enormous fan of Heidi's gorgeous photographs for years. In fact, she was one of my inspirations for pointing my camera toward my meals in the first place.

Heidi's second book, Super Natural Cooking, has hit the stores. I feel lucky; I already have my own copy. Heidi sent it to me in the mail, as a thank you for testing the recipes. You see, I had to keep this quiet when the book was in production, and I certainly couldn't take photographs, but I had the honor of testing a few recipes for Heidi, and giving her feedback. (You can even find my name in the page of acknowledgments!)

I can say, therefore, with no qualifications, that you should own this book. The photographs are stunning, the header notes are filled with interesting stories, and the recipes yield bright, alive food. This food is good for you, true. But you will want to eat it, and then eat some more.

And for those of us who are gluten-free? This book is a godsend. Heidi has an entire chapter on grains beyond wheat, with fascinating capsule descriptions of grains such as amaranth and teff, and even mesquite flour, available to us. Even the few recipes that involve whole wheat can fairly easily be adapted to be gluten-free.

Don't believe me yet? Listen to these recipes:

Millet Fried Rice
Red Indian Carrot Soup
Winter Rainbow Gratin
Quinoa and Corn Flour Crepes

Those are just some of the ones I tested. Oh, yum.

Add to that Heidi's sexy, attentive photographs, filled with color and a sense of play, and you will quickly be drawn in to reading, more and more.

In the mornings, the Chef likes to read the entire newspaper. Me? After a few minutes, I usually switch to a cookbook, perusing recipes and figuring out what to cook for him that night, my mind enticed by all the ideas inside the pages. I can promise you this — for the next few days, I'll have Super Natural Cooking by my bed. Grilled teff wedges, here I come.

Comfort restaurant

2008-01-29T19:44:00.000-08:00

And for dinner? A Southern comfort restaurant I stumbled on, in Richmond, Virginia, unexpectedly.

After my rapid-fire visit to Manhattan, I flew to Richmond to prepare for the Gluten Intolerance Group’s annual conference. Exhausted from all the traveling, I thought of just eating the energy bars in my bag and crashing in my hotel room. But downtown Richmond called.

My lovely hotel — formerly a row house from the 1820s, with a courtyard and rocking chairs on the porches — was in the dilapidated area of downtown Richmond. Most stores were closed, or going out of business. But the streets had character, and the stores that were open convinced me at one glance that I was in the South. Humid air and vivid colors, people congregating on the street in chattering clutches, and movie theatres from the 20s — Richmond called me out of my room.

Lunch had been eight hours before, and even though that meal at Gotham had been one of the best I had ever eaten, the stomach still grows hungry. The guy at the front desk of the hotel recommended some restaurants. Everything he recommended sounded cheesy, and meant for tourists. No thanks. “There is this place called Comfort,” he drawled, a little reluctant to tell me. “It’s Southern food.”

I was out the door.

Wherever I go, I like to eat the food of that culture. There’s something inherently depressing about going to a chain restaurant and having the food taste exactly the same as it does 2400 miles away. And whenever I travel, it seems, the best restaurants are the ones that hotel folks are a little reluctant to recommend.

When I walked into Comfort, I felt right at home. High ceilings, cool colors, ivy growing up a wall of windows — this place exuded cool. I sat at the bar and smiled at the bartender.

These days, I don’t have much chance to walk into a restaurant by myself, particularly one where I don’t know anyone. At one point in my life, I felt prickly with nervousness at being alone in a public place. Now, I revel in it.

The bartender made me a Manhattan, after I asked him what was his favorite drink to make at the moment. He was right. It was spectacular.

When I asked the bartender about the gluten issue, he asked for help. The owner — wonderfully friendly and eager to please — came over to ask me how he could help. I walked him through everything. He went back to the kitchen to check. He came back to tell me about the cornmeal they use, stone ground in a mill only a few towns away. One more check, and we had a plan. (That’s what I love about the best restaurants — they make me feel like I’m a guest, and they are thrilled to serve me.) What was for dinner?

Barbecued pulled pork, fried okra, and cheddar cheese grits.

Hello, I’m in the South.

I called the Chef to share it with him. When I told him the meal that was coming, he said, “That’s my girl.”

Everything was heaven. My mouth still waters at the thought of that pulled pork — spicy, but not enough to emblazon my mouth; slightly sweet; subtle in the layering — clearly made slowly, with love. And those cheddar cheese grits? Oh my goodness, how have I never made grits? Time to rectify that. Okra? I had never eaten it. But okra fried in cornmeal? I’ll be eating that again.

(Here I must leave an important note. A wonderful woman I met at the conference the next day emailed me a few days later. She said she had been to Comfort, on my recommendation, the next day. The waitress that night informed her that the cornmeal in the fried okra is mixed with a little wheat flour. The owner swore to me that wasn’t true. Who to believe? I didn’t feel sick immediately after my meal, as I always do when I get gluten by mistake. The next day I felt a little off, with some familiar intestinal troubles, but I thought that was the airport food, which is a story for a few days from now. If you go to Comfort, ask carefully, and make your own judgments.)

Within a few moments, people to my left and right spotted my camera, and my pen. They asked me I was doing a review. Of a sorts. And within ten minutes, we were all chattering away, talking about food and love. By the end of the meal, I had made new friends.

A fabulous dinner, a decadent cocktail, and conversations with everyone around me? That’s my idea of comfort.

Comfort
200 West Broad Street
Richmond, VA 23220
804.780.0004

Gotham Bar and Grill

2008-01-29T19:40:00.000-08:00

I ate at Gotham Bar and Grill.

Now, this was no random occurrence. For weeks, I had been anticipating this lunch. You see, I was meeting my editor at Wiley, and the person in charge of marketing for my book. For days, I had been saying with a straight face, “Oh, I’ll be in Manhattan, meeting my editor and marketing person.” It didn’t take me long to start giggling. How is this my life?

My wonderful editor and I have been talking for nearly a year, laughing on the phone about food and cultural mishaps. Most of the time, we’re eagerly tumbling our words over the other’s, connecting and agreeing, ready with another story. Most of the time, we weren’t even talking about the book. We just talked. I remember the moment I knew I liked her, in the first conversation we had back in the fall. When I commented on how much I liked the sound of her ebullient voice, she said, “You know, I’m just a happy person. People keep waiting for me to be jaded or angry, but I’m just happy.”

I love my editor.

When I told her I was going to be in New York for part of the day, she asked me where I wanted to have lunch. Within a minute or two, I knew. Gotham Bar and Grill. The Chef and I love Alfred Portale’s approach to food: seasonal, fresh, and always surprising. When I met the Chef, I also inherited two of Portale’s books. I’ve been inspired by those books more times than I can say. I knew it, instantly: Gotham Bar and Grill.

The Chef was so jealous.

After the suitcase story and the subway ride laughing, I walked down 12th Street toward the restaurant. Everything looked familiar. There’s a funny thing about New York: no matter how long I have been gone, as soon as I set foot on the sidewalks of that city, I am home. There was the Jewish temple where I volunteered every Saturday morning, feeding people who needed a meal. Over there the Quad Cinema, where I stood in line with friends to watch documentaries. And there was Gotham Bar and Grill, which I walked past countless times before I knew how tremendous it was.

Plus, they have a coat check where a lovely girl let me keep my bag for the duration of lunch.

And when I first saw my editor, we both squealed a little, and gave each other a big hug.

The lunch felt like it lasted minutes, instead of three hours. Jen, the wonderful woman in charge of marketing for my book, felt like a friend within four minutes. We talked about my book, eventually, but mostly we three talked about food, farmers’ markets, Michael Pollan, the confusions of the label “organic,” fresh fruit, and everything to do with food. (Oh, and dating and the weird vagaries of working for the overly rich.) They made me laugh and they gave me hope.

They also really like my book.

And if the conversation didn’t do it, we certainly bonded over the food. Asparagus salad with a poached egg. Black bass ceviche with chiles and avocado. Roasted duck breast with fermented plums, port sauce, and fava beans. Spinach custard with baby carrots. Everything gorgeous, and everything presented beautifully on enormous plates.

(Sadly, the photos I tried to take were simply too dark to post up here. I won’t do the place injustice by putting up ugly photos!)

That meal made me miss the Chef.

My editor had called ahead to ensure that I could eat gluten-free. And as I suspected, they took care of me, just fine. This is one of the rules I have learned throughout this journey: if you choose the restaurant where they truly care about food, you can eat gluten-free. Our wonderful waiter — half obsequious, half sarcastic — walked me through the menu to inform me of what I could eat.

However, I was surprised to find that a meticulous staff in one of the best restaurants in the city still didn’t understand the gluten issue. When the waiter gestured toward what I could not eat, he said, “Of course, you cannot have the risotto.”
Surprised, I asked him, “Do you use flour in your risotto?”
He looked just as surprised and said, “Can you eat rice?”

Later, toward the end of the meal, I was thrilled to find that Gotham has a warm chocolate cake, completely flourless. And it was served with lemon thyme ice cream! Of course, I wanted that.

“Well,” said the waiter, “the kitchen says you cannot have the lemon thyme ice cream. We can offer you cherry sorbet.”

I love the tang and soft surprise of lemon thyme. Wait, why? Do they put flour in their ice cream? Don’t tell me that they use commercially produced ice cream at Gotham Bar and Grill.

Curious, I asked the waiter, “Okay. But just for curiosity’s sake, could you ask your chef what it is in the ice cream that prevents me from eating it?”

When he returned, he said, “The ice cream has glucose in it.”

Glucose. Gluten. Same thing, right?

The good news is — I ate at Gotham Bar and Grill without a snitch of sickness. No gluten in me during that meal.

Life was good.

Gotham Bar and Grill
12 E. 12th Street
New York, NY 10003
212.620.4020

Redbridge beer

2008-01-29T19:08:00.000-08:00

In development for years, Redbridge is a response to the loud clamoring of those of who have to live gluten-free: we want beer! This company is smart — we are a growing consumer base, in business speak. Current statistics say that only 3% of the three million people living with celiac in this country are even diagnosed, but that is changing, on a daily basis. As awareness of the need to eat gluten-free grows (and I’m doing everything I can on that front), more products are emerging on the market.

Anheuser-Busch is the most mainstream company in America, so far, to acknowledge the gluten-free market. Beer. They made us beer.

I had the pleasure of speaking with Angie Mingis, product manager for Redbridge, and Kristi Zantop, head brewmaster for Redbridge. I’ll admit it — I had contacted Anheuser-Busch, looking for some free beer. As much as I had heard about the elixir, it hadn’t shown up in my stores yet. I wanted to try some and tell you about it. It turns out that Washington State law prevents anyone from sending beer through the mail. Hm. But, in the conversations, a lovely woman in customer service asked me if I would like to talk with this pair. Sure. Frankly, I loved the fact that I would be talking with an all-woman team.

The enthusiasm in their voices was unmistakable. One of them told me about a childhood friend who had recently been diagnosed with celiac, who was “…absolutely elated.” Another told me of a terrible irony — one of her brewing professors at UC Davis has been diagnosed. He is so happy about Redbridge that he wants to be their national spokesperson. These two women were proud of their work. They should be. Earlier versions of the beer — made with buckwheat — simply didn’t work. Even when they decided to switch to sorghum, the African grain that makes thousands of gallons of backyard beer on that continent, the earliest batches were too tart for their taste. “It was a challenge to have the perception of malted barley without barley,” Kristi told me. Of course. What they wanted to conceive — and we want to drink — is a beer that tastes like beer. Not a specialty item, or a slightly sweet substitute, but a beer.

I never was much of a beer drinker before I found out I have celiac. Whenever I drank a beer, I grew blotchy red and sleepy. Why did anyone like the stuff? But I have to admit, since I found my first six-pack at Whole Foods (a few hours after my phone interview), I have been drinking more than my fair share of Redbridge. Ay god, I love the stuff.

This is a full-bodied beer, with a little note of citrus in it. It is rich, without a hint of bitterness at the back of the throat. It flits through my taste buds. Kristi, the brewmaster, had other words to describe it: hopped; hearty; malted. I’m not enough of a beer aficionado to say what those mean. I only know this: every time I drink a Redbridge, I have a tickle at the back of my throat. It is part giggle and part disbelief. I’m drinking a beer.

Saigon cinnamon from World Spice

2008-01-29T19:06:00.000-08:00

Cinnamon harvested in Vietnam is actually called cassia. ("True" cinnamon is actually much milder than what we have grown accustomed to, in this country.) In small villages in Vietnam, people grind the older bark that is lower to the ground, rich in pungent oils and just more so than the branches above it. This ground cassia is shipped to Seattle, and sold to me at World Spice.

It sits now in our kitchen, a pinch ready to mingle amidst apples to make a truly extraordinary pie. If we need cinnamon, for Moroccan dishes, we use only this "Saigon cinnamon" from World Spice, now. The cinnamon I lived with for three decades before this feels flat and dulled on my tongue.

We try to buy it in tiny amounts, however — Saigon cinnamon is so strong that only 1/8 of a teaspoon spices an entire dish — so that we can have that experience, again and again, of returning to the spice store, together, to share new tastes.

Maple Buckwheat Flakes

2007-12-31T10:46:00.000-08:00

We celiacs don't have too many cold cereal choices. I love the line of kids' cereals made by Nature's Path, but I do feel just a little silly downing a bowl of Peanut Butter Panda Puffs in front of someone else.

This past month, however, I found a slightly more adult cereal that I can eat. Arrowhead Mills' Organic Maple Buckwheat Flakes have a crunch you can hear in your ears, a slightly sweet taste from maple syrup, and that magical quality of staying crispy in a bowl of milk. Best of all, they are labeled gluten-free.

I love seeing that label.

Some afternoons, when I have been writing for hours, I go into the kitchen and fix myself a bowl of buckwheat flakes in my favorite blue bowl. It may be glowering outside, and I may still have five hours of writing before me, but while I am crunching on these, I am feeling fine.

Now, if only I had some Saturday morning cartoons to go with it.

Nielsen-Massey bourbon vanilla

2007-12-31T10:43:00.000-08:00

I've become overly partial to this bottle of vanilla extract: Nielsen-Massey's Madagascar Bourbon Pure Vanilla. Smooth and sweet, with little hints of something deeper, this vanilla enlivens every baked good I make. And with Christmas season — and my gluten-free sugar cut-out cookies — approaching, I made sure I am stocked up right now.

This company, which is one hundred years old this year and based in Illinois, works hard at gathering the best vanilla from around the world: Madagascar, Indonesia, Tahiti, and Mexico. They also have a vanilla bean paste that Joycelyn at the ever-beautiful Kuidaore swears by for her exquisite creations. That's enough for me.

Even better, this summer Nielsen Massey was the first major ingredient supplier in the United States to be certified gluten-free. Any company that has Cynthia Kupper's stamp of approval is all right with me.

Better yet, the taste. Oh my — I emit a low moan.

So, if you want to feel safe that you are using gluten-free vanilla products, and fold the best-tasting vanilla extract into your baked goods for Thanksgiving, go pick up a bottle of this. You won't regret it.

Crave bakery pumpkin tart

2007-12-31T10:39:00.000-08:00

And, for another option, in case you just don't want to bake at all, there is Crave Bakery. Now, for purposes of integrity, I have to tell you that Cameo, the president of the company, sent me one of their pumpkin tarts overnight the other day, just so I could taste it. That's a photograph of its crust, just above these words. However, I am sent masses of gluten-free food for free, and most of it I never mention. This pie is good. The fact that it is gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, and soy-free makes it even more astounding. The crust is flaky, the pumpkin filling dense with taste, and the whole pie a beautiful sight. Crave goods are available in Whole Foods on the west coast. However, if you live somewhere else and really need one of these tarts, I am sure that Cameo could send you one!

Wild Ginger

2007-12-31T10:27:00.001-08:00

I knew just where to go. Wild Ginger.

Two years ago, when Cindy came for a visit, we spent an entire, delectable evening at this theatrical, pan-Asian restaurant. I say theatrical because the place is enormous, with levels of seating, airy spaces rising to the ceiling, swanky bars, and perfectly set tables. And the food. Oh, the food. Seared ahi tuna bruschetta. Lychee nut martinis. Roasted duck with little buns and plum sauce. Cindy and I sat there all night, laughing and talking, and we didn't finish eating our mango sticky rice until nearly midnight. We have talked about that night ever since.

So of course we had to go back. However, this time I had to eat differently. Could they accommodate me?

Yes, they did. Beautifully. And I'm writing this now — with a cheesy picture of ginger I took last night — so all those of you who must eat gluten-free know there is another option in Seattle. (Besides the Chef's restaurant, where you should go first.)

What I loved most about our meal at Wild Ginger — aside from the company — was the thoughtful, thorough service we received from the staff. This is a restaurant that values great food, and they have hired waiters who know that food well. When I mentioned that I cannot eat gluten, in my usual way ("I'm so sorry to bother you but....cannot anything with gluten...even a small amount...get violently ill in your restaurant."), our waiter sent over their specialist.

Jennifer is, apparently, allergic to almost every food. That made her the perfect detective for my meal. Cindy and the Chef were kind enough to order gluten-free meals as well, so we could share the Hong Kong scallops, the herb-crusted sea bass, the banana peppers stuffed with crab and shrimp, the Bangkok Boar satay skewers, and the beef curry. Jennifer knew every ingredient of every dish, and when I asked, "Could we have this?" she shook her head, or nodded. Then, she went back to enormous kitchen and personally inspected the cooking of every dish.

At this point, our waiter, Tyler came over to ask if we needed anything else. I told him, effusively, how happy we were with everything, particularly the way they had taken care of me. Humbly, he said, "Well, Jennifer is allergic to everything, and I'm absolutely paranoid about any of my customers getting sick. So you have the best team."

I love them.

Going to Wild Ginger proves to me again that it is entirely possible to eat gluten-free in a restaurant — even an enormous restaurant that feeds over 600 people a night — and eat well. More than well — exquisitely.

I know that many of you gluten-free readers are afraid to eat in a restaurant, or go only to chain restaurants that have special gluten-free menus. Respectfully, may I suggest? Please, stop that. If you choose a truly extraordinary restaurant that truly cares about the food, and you stand up for yourself when you order, you have a fabulous chance of eating one of the most memorable meals of your life.

Cindy and the Chef agree: gorgeous.

Wild Ginger
1401 Third Avenue
Seattle, WA 98101
206.623.4450

Wow brownies

2007-12-31T10:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, buying food from a local food producer costs more money than buying mass-produced food. A start-up company in Seattle, called WOW Foods, makes truly delicious gluten-free cookies. These cookies — ginger-molasses; chocolate chip; peanut butter — are the size of a large man’s hand. In other words, they look like the chewy cookies that people who can eat gluten buy in their favorite local bakery. Each cookie costs about $2.50. You may be thinking — yikes! But think about it. How much would you pay for a treat at the bakery?

Why are WOW cookies so expensive? They are made with organic ingredients, the best-quality butter, the finest vanilla flavoring in the world, and natural cane juice, instead of bleached white sugar. These were conscious choices by the people who created the company. All those ingredients cost money. These cookies are worth it. If I am not making gluten-free cookies myself, I buy from this local, small business that insists on making the best cookies they can. That they are gluten-free is essential to my health. That I am supporting people who truly care about food is vital to my mind.

And now, WOW Baking is making brownies? And they are available for sale at the store across the street from me?

Life is good.

Foraged and Found Edibles

2007-12-31T10:23:00.000-08:00

Every Saturday, late morning or early afternoon, the Chef and I pass the mushroom stall at the University District, then double back. Even though Jeremy or Christina will be delivering another bag full of mushrooms to the restaurant later in the week, the Chef might just need some that night for the fish special. Or for pickling, then placing them in a paté. Or maybe we just want to say hello, again.

Jeremy and Christina run Foraged and Found Edibles. For the most part, they make their living by digging in the rich earth of the woods around Seattle, and finding the best mushrooms growing at the moment. (When mushrooms are not growing, they take catering jobs.) They sell chanterelles and lobsters, oysters and porcinis, whatever is yielding itself to their hands that week. And then they make their rounds of the best restaurants in the city, walking in during the afternoon, before dinner service, and handing over mushrooms only hours away from the forest to the chefs ready in their kitchens.

Including my Chef.

I love these two, the way they have made their living through food. And their mushrooms are incredible. These chanterelles? Mmmmwhaah. (That's the sound of me kissing my fingers into the air.)

Also, they're just plain beautiful.

Whole Foods pizza crusts

2007-12-31T10:18:00.000-08:00

If I am going to eat packaged, gluten-free food, I still want it to be the best. And so, for the late-summer pizza you see pictured above, I used a pizza crust from Whole Foods. As much as I may disdain chains, I cherish the fact that Whole Foods has created an entire gluten-free bakeshop and supplies the nation's stores with wholesome gluten-free goods for us to buy. Of course, given that supply is limited and demands enormous, the prices are exorbitant. However, once in awhile, I splurge. These pizza crusts are worth it. They are flaky and chewy, with a good crunch when they are almost burnt.

Ludvig's bistro

2007-12-31T10:10:00.000-08:00

Three summers ago, in Sitka, when I didn’t yet know that I had to avoid gluten, I was mortified to find that the dinner offering in the cafeteria the first night was — get ready for it — deep-fried hamburgers. Oh god. After a week of similarly horrifying food, I hungered for anything that tasted natural and fresh. My friend Kristin and I were wandering down Katlian Street, passing the Pioneer Bar, maybe making our way to Lane Seven for more shakes (most of my calories in Sitka seem to come from shakes), when we stumbled on nirvana. Ludvig’s Bistro. We couldn’t believe it — an actual restaurant, not meant at all for tourists. Tiny and cozy, with only eight or ten tables, this restaurant smelled good. We sat down, spontaneously, and ordered salads. Salads! With dark greens, and more than one kind of lettuce! Fresh fish, not breaded and fried. Beautiful potatoes and lovely green beans and radiant radishes. Food. Actual food. By the time we sat back in our chairs, with a French press of hot coffee between us on the table, we vowed we would come back again.

And I have, every year. Since my first summer there, Ludvig’s has grown in reputation, but not in size. In the past year, reporters from The New York Times and The Guardian in London have eaten in the tiny place and raved about it to their readers. It is well nigh impossible to simply walk into Ludvig’s and stumble into a table, the way I did that first year. Make reservations far in advance if you want to savor the flavors of Ludvig’s. But the wait is worth it. Every year, my meals at Ludvig’s are the highlight of my food time in Sitka.

This year was no exception. For my first dinner at Ludvig’s this summer, I sat staring in awe at the plate of calamari steaming in front of me. My colleague Ellen and I shared a salad (greens! vegetables!), then the Katlian special: white king salmon on a bed of onion risotto, with wild strawberries, basil, and a balsamic vinaigrette. For dessert? An outrageous custardy creation with mocha flavoring and bits of espresso, which they called the Picasso. At the end of the meal, I sat back in satisfaction.

The second night I went to Ludvig’s, I splurged and simply went straight for it: I bought the steak. A few summers ago, I ate the best steak I have ever eaten, at Ludvig’s, a sirloin topped with creme fraiche and Dungeness crab. Ay god. This year, it was only slightly more healthy, with sauteed portobello mushrooms, onions, and green beans. Oh baby. And then there was creme brulee.

There is no hiding it: Ludvig’s is expensive. Everything in Alaska is more expensive than in the lower 48 — almost all the produce and fresh food has to be brought up to Sitka by container ship. Still, $32.95 for a salmon plate is a wallop. If you are eating tuna out of a can, however, it is more than worth it.

And for me — and all of you reading who must be gluten-free — Ludvig’s is even more of a godsend. They know how to cook for me, safely, no question. Last year, when I went back for the first time after my celiac diagnosis, I started to hesitantly explain what gluten meant. My waitress waved her hand in the air in a friendly manner. “Oh, my best friend has that. We just finished travelling through Europe together. I know how to take care of you.” And she did. (There are so many of us out there. It’s always deeply reassuring when someone acknowledges it, though. We are not freaks. We are not alone.) This year — as you can see from the photograph on top — not only do they know how to cook gluten-free at Ludvig’s, but they even have that option programmed into their computer for their receipt. I was so happy to see that printed on the receipt that I had to take a photograph of it.

Somewhere I can eat gluten-free, delightfully, with gusto? That’s always worth recording.

Ludvig's Bistro
256 Katlian Drive
Sitka, Alaska 99835
907.966.3663

Little Tokyo

2007-12-31T10:08:00.000-08:00

Considering that Alaskan seafood is the best in the world, it is no wonder that sashimi at Sitka’s only sushi restaurant is some of the best in the world. Much of the menu is meant for tourists, of course, who swarm into the tiny town three times a week, standing in the middle of the road like sheep waiting to be herded. They probably only order the beef teriyaki or chicken yakisoba. Maybe they are the ones who order the fried sushi specials, which look lurid on Little Toko’s menu. However, if you know what to order, you can find fantastic sashimi and sushi at this little restaurant on {Main} Street.

Twice, I have ordered the sashimi platter, with beautiful slices of fresh salmon, so creamy and perfectly melting on the tongue that several members of my party moaned upon eating it. Tony, the b-boy dancer from Philadelphia, just kept shaking his head in time with the rhythm of his exclamations of “No salmon tastes like this in Philly!” He eschewed the octopus I offered him, which left me happily munching on it by myself. Mostly, though, it was the tuna, so thin it was almost translucent, and a flavor as vivid as its bright-red color. Curled around my tongue, that tuna made me miss the Chef just a little less for a minute.

Twice, I have walked into town after classes, and stopped at the Harry Race Pharmacy for a blackberry shake (oh goodness — that’s a place to go as well, with its old-fashioned soda fountain and twelve different flavors), then walked to Little Tokyo for a Philadelphia roll. Now, I have to say, I’m not a big fan of cream cheese in sushi. It just feels so damned American. But when Tony ordered this roll, I eyed it enviously, because of the beautiful thick slices of salmon rolled around the rice. He was kind enough to let me have a piece, and I was convinced. And so, two evenings this week, I have walked across the bridge, looking at Sitka harbor on one side of me, dozens of tiny green-treed islands to the other side of me, sipping from the blackberry shake in one hand, and gobbling pieces of avocado-asparagus-cream cheese-and-salmon sushi, happy as the eagles soaring above my head.

Little Tokyo

315 Lincoln Street
Sitka, Alaska 99835
907-747-5699

Malena's tacos

2007-12-31T10:02:00.000-08:00

This evening, just when I returned from work, my friend Quinn arrived on my doorstep. We started talking fast and moving out the door, down the steps, across the street, toward the other end of the block -- to Malena’s Tacos.

Just because I didn’t cook doesn’t mean the evening was devoid of food.

Malena’s is one of my favorite little places in the world. These days, I don’t eat in restaurants that often. It’s not because I’m afraid of growing sick, so much — I seem to have figured out how to make my way through the dining-out experience with safety. Instead, I’ve learned how to cook food in my kitchen — with the freshest ingredients, in season, grown locally — that tastes better to me than most restaurant food I eat. I don’t want to waste my money on a meal I could have easily made at home, and for half the price.

These days, I only eat in a restaurant when I know the food will be extraordinary. Or, when I can eat a cuisine I haven’t learned to make in my kitchen yet. Outrageously good Thai food. Delicate, kick-in-the-pants Vietnamese food. A veggie combo platter at an Ethiopian restaurant. Sushi.

Now, I could probably learn to make asada tacos, but they just wouldn’t taste as good as they do at Malena’s. The women in the twenty-foot-square storefront have been flipping tortillas and grilling peppers for years longer than I have. And since they use corn tortillas for almost everything, and I can watch them cooking on the grill in front of me, I feel assured eating there, at one of the tiny tables with the wobbly legs. They bring salty corn chips, made on the premises, in a red plastic basket with red-and-white checked paper, like the kind in which fish and chips might arrive in a bar. The salsa bites the tongue, then dances around it lightly. Not aggressive to the point of pain, but also not so bland as to disappear. Smooth, like a real sauce, instead of the American-salsa-in-a-bottle, with chewy chunks of pale tomatoes floating in a light liquid. This one is dark red. It means business. Order a side of fresh-made guacamole and you have corn chip heaven: green softness that clings to the chip, then a splash of salsa. Ah.

Last night, I ordered the asada tacos: chunks of tender beef, seared, with onions, little tomatoes, salsa, guacamole, and fresh cilantro. I try to order something different every time I go in, but I always end up with those tacos again. Quinn had a pork burrito with guacamole, and he seemed happy. It certainly disappeared quickly. We talked about food, of course. He had just been to Vancouver with his girlfriend, and they had eaten some magical substance: hot frites with cheese curds on top, then beef sauce poured over it all. Ay god, I wanted some immediately, even with those lovely tacos in my hand. There were discussions of wine, bad art, broken-down cars, promising second dates, upcoming events, and the students we shared. Time always passes quickly with Quinn.

Malena's Taco Shop
620 W Mcgraw St
Seattle, WA 98119-2837
(206) 284-0304

University District farmers' market

2007-12-31T09:54:00.000-08:00

Spring is definitely in the air. All around the city, ebullient-looking couples are holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. People talk about summer vacation as though it is just around the weekend. Even the air feels sprightly.

The world is alive again.

And for me, one of the best signs of this exuberant time happened yesterday morning: the University District Farmers' Market opened for business at nine am.

All winter long, when I drove by in the rain, I looked forlornly at the empty parking lot on 50th Street. Winter is necessary, I know. How else could everything grow without the dormant time? I try to live every moment fully, not longing for something else. However, when I saw that empty parking lot, I'd have a little pang of sadness. It's not springtime yet. Summer is a fading memory. There is no farmers' market to attend.

Seattle has spectacular farmers' markets. All throughout the spring and summer, dahlias bloom in plastic buckets in profusion. Greens lie on wooden tables, pungent and just pulled from the earth. Fresh goat cheese awaits us. Every Sunday afternoon in summer, I stroll through the Ballard farmers' market, an entire city street blocked off, the sun shining through red and yellow banners, music playing. Moving slowly, I look at every stall, ask questions of every farmer, sample all the foods I can eat. The farmers’ market is a social occasion for me. I introduce friends to the joys of local and organic, as we stroll around with cups of coffee or glasses of fresh cider. I make new friends every week, over the beauties of broccoli or the joys of juicy raspberries. And I learn the stories of some of these farmers, stories of making goat cheese every week east of the mountains or growing arugula near the city. I love buying produce from the same hands that have pulled it from the ground.

I learned how to eat well from the farmers’ markets of Seattle. I have always been an enthusiastic cook, but I didn’t really start to explore until I had to stop eating gluten. When first faced with a life without wheat, rye, or barley, I was not daunted. Strangely, I feel lucky that I had been so violently ill for months on end. When I cut out the gluten, I felt better within three days. As soon as found my strength, I was greeted with spring sunshine and a world of possibilities. I started wandering through the farmers’ markets and buying anything that called to me, any fresh food that did not contain gluten. In the past, I might have simply bought the vegetables I knew I liked, the easiest fruits to eat whole, and gone home with one bag. But with my blossoming health, I began opening to new foods. Chinese spinach. Kale. Beets. Slow-roasted tomatoes. Every week, a new vegetable seemed to show up on every stall, and I was convinced to buy it, whether or not I knew how to cook it. I learned and learned and ate and learned. As my health began to feel as strong as July sunshine, I realized that I would never go back. I was alive.

Knowing this, you might understand why it was I wanted to skip into the University District farmers’ market on Saturday morning. The first day of the market being open after months of dormancy, ready for business at 9 am? My dear friend Dorothy and I were there at 9:04, our senses open and our wallets ready.

And we’re off. Baby leeks. Vivid tulips. First lactation goat cheese. Chervil. Strawberries. Women with babies. Men in Tevas. Families ready to eat. The breeze was still cold on our faces, the sky was overcast and grey, and summer is too far away to even begin to hope. But the farmers’ markets are open now.

Three cheers for spring and the farmers’ markets of Seattle.

Open Saturdays year-round (yay! that's a recent innovation)
9am to 2pm
at the corner of University Way & NE 50th
in the playground of the University Heights Center for the Community.

Rice (a restaurant)

2007-12-31T09:48:00.000-08:00

I don't have any photographs from my meal at Rice, because the lighting is moody dark with little candles, the tables shoved in close together, and the entire place smaller than my apartment. No matter. Can a good meal exist even if I couldn't document it. You bet. Gabe suggested this place, for a dinner with our friend Yael and her boyfriend, Adam. He didn't know if I could find a gluten-free entree, but I assumed that with a name like Rice, I'd probably be fine.

Turns out I was right.

This lovely little restaurant is based on different kinds of rice: basmati, thai black, lebanese, and bhutanese red, to name a few. There are more than a dozen pan-Asian dishes, like chicken satay, Thai coconut curry, and even jerk chicken wings. I felt a little dizzy with possibilities when I read the menu, but I knew better than to decide anything before I asked.

The hip, sly waitress -- Rice is in Nolita, a small area of relentless trendiness that tries to act nonchalant -- looked at me through her tiny, black glasses when I started to explain gluten, then said: "Hold on a minute." When she came back, she handed me a small menu. I nearly cried when I saw what was written on the front: "Gluten-free Menu for Celiacs." Wow.

I was surprised to see that I couldn't order the Indian chicken curry with mango, bananas, and yogurt. What could be in there? But she explained that they used just a touch of flour to thicken the sauce. Thank goodness I asked. And for those of you reading who can eat gluten, imagine having to investigate every mouthful of food you eat. If you can imagine it, you'll understand why I felt in such safe hands at this place.

I ordered a thick corncake with queso cheese and spicy tomatoes. Instantly, I felt fine. The spices burst forth with bold intensity, each of them singular, all them working together. The warm lentil stew arrived on top of "green rice," which is rice infused with cilantro, parsley, and spinach.

Wash it all down with a good bottle of spicy red wine and the laughter of close friends, and you have a damned fine meal.

Rice
227 Mott Street
212.226.5775
(plus, three more locations)

Gobo.

2007-12-31T09:45:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I stumbled onto Gobo, in the Village, on the recommendation of a British friend. He had an impeccable food sense (read: really picky) and a strong stubborn streak for fiercely independent places. He was right, in this case.

Gobo has a meticulously beautiful aesthetic, with warm lighting, long tables, and Buddha statues interspersed throughout the dining room. I enjoyed that dinner more than any other in New York during that visit three years ago. This time, now that I have to find gluten-free food, I assumed they might be able to help me, given their vegetarian mission.

So my friend Kari and I sat down for lunch. After she took off her coat, I asked her where she had found her elegant scarf. "France," she said, surely referring to one of the many trips she makes to France with her fiancé.

"Ah, of course," I said, already laughing. "Those French. They do everything well."

At this moment, our tall, blond waiter approached the table and leaned down toward us obsequiously, and said, in an outrageous French accent, "'ello. My name is Matthew. I will be your waiter...." Before we could unfreeze our faces, he broke back into his flat American twang. "Nah, I'm just kidding."

I knew we'd be okay.

Much of the menu, as I scanned it, seemed possible. They serve organic, vegetarian food in small plates, from a variety of cuisines around the world. It's not quite raw cuisine, but it's close. After all, they call themselves "Food for the Five Senses," and that's not an exaggeration. More is at play at Gobo than simply serving customers meals, fast. There are organic juice cocktails, Vietnamese spring rolls, slow-cooked Malaysian curry stews, and desserts bereft of refined white sugar. I thought I would be fine.

But still, I had to ask. So I went into my typical spiel, a little obsequious myself, but firm. Before I reached the point where I have to explain what the heck gluten is, Matthew looked over my head to the hostess and said, "Honey, can I have the gluten-free menu?"

Oh my. I never knew how happy this would make me, before I stopped eating gluten. To have a restaurant that truly cares about food care enough to know the meals that I can eat? Well, let's just say I'm a generous tipper.

Better yet, when I asked the waiter if I could take pictures -- explaining about my website and why I write about this -- Matthew said, "Wait, what's the name of the site?" I gave him this address, and he said: "Oh, my best friend can't eat gluten. She's on your site all the time."

Now that was exhilarating.

And the food? Superb. We lingered for a long time, with avocado tartare, rice-pasta lasagna in a dark red sauce, and pineapple soaked in rum caramel and topped with vanilla ice cream.

This is not deprivation.

GOBO
401 Avenue of the Americas (we all know that's 6th Avenue)
212.255.3902
(there's also another one on the Upper East Side now)

Risotteria

2007-12-31T09:41:00.000-08:00

There’s simply no expressing the glee I feel when I walk into a restaurant and see gf all down the menu. I know that there is no way to express it, because Monica and I spent nearly our entire meal at Risotteria blathering to Gabe how great it was to be in this extraordinary place. The other part of the meal we spent exulting and exclaiming.

Gluten-free breadsticks! Gluten-free beer! (A honey beer from upstate New York, slightly carbonated, which was disconcerting. It didn’t taste anything like the thick IPAs I used to drink or micro-brews I loved. But it was beer, and I was drinking it.) Gluten-free pizza!

Risotteria is what it sounds like: a risotto restaurant. And much more.

Slim in size, so that you have to sidle to your table, this restaurant had every table filled, with people waiting three deep, the night I went to visit. And every table had at least one gluten-free customer, beaming, savoring her meal even more because she knew she was going to be well by the end of it.

The women who had the table before us were in their 60s, two of them gluten-free, and all of them celebrating. “You won’t believe how good it is,” one of them said, as they passed us. “It’s my birthday, and I knew this was the only place I wanted to go.” We three wished her a happy birthday, then dove for the corner table they had just left.

And then, something transpired that hasn’t happened to me in a long time in a restaurant: I had to look at the menu for five minutes before I knew what I wanted. Not because I couldn’t find anything that could be gluten-free, but because I had such a plethora of choices. Did I want a pesto-mozzarella panini on rice-flour bread? A pizza with anchovies? A spinach salad with goat cheese? Risotto with porcini mushrooms and gruyere?

In the end, we ordered a pizza, a pesto risotto, and a spinach salad for the table, and split them three ways. Gabe thought the food tasted fine -- then again, his parents had been in town for the week and had taken him places like Prune for dinner every night, so his taste buds were elevated -- but he clearly didn’t quite understand why we were so excited.

We didn’t need him to understand, Monica and I. We were in gluten-free heaven.

And then we had the carrot cake, which made us rise even higher.

Risotteria
270 Bleeker Street
212.924.6664

Puff and Pao

2007-12-31T09:37:00.000-08:00

One of the happiest times I had on my trip to New York was the cold morning I wandered around the Village by myself, searching for hot coffee and stumbling on fabulous food places. Desperate to find a good cup of coffee, I walked from street to street to street. When I finally gave up, I found Puff and Pao instead.

This tiny, sunny shop on Christopher Street sells cream puffs (forbidden) and paolitos (gluten-free). They also make them in separate ovens, so there is no cross-contamination. Paolitos, or paos as the shop likes to call them, are little cheese puffs. These were made from manioc flour and filled with New York cheddar or English farmhouse cheese.(Pao de quijo means bread of cheese.) Bite-size -- if you work hard to restrain yourself, you can make each one last for two bites -- and crispy, these were my most delicious discovery of the trip.

Standing in front of the glass case, I couldn't believe my luck. All these choices! There were chorizo paos, Chinese scallions paos, sweet Maui onion paos, basil paos, sun-dried tomato paos, and cracked pepper paos. Plus, about ten more. I just couldn't decide. So ordered a dozen.

I sat in the sunlight and bit slowly into each little pao, savoring the taste, and the light, lovely texture. How could I not love something packed with cheese, crispy on the outside, then wonderfully chewy inside? Especially when it was gluten-free.

Sigh. I could eat paolitos every day. Why does Puff and Pao have to be so far away?

I guess that just means another trip to New York soon.

Puff and Pao
105 Christopher Street
212-633-PUFF (7833)

Babycakes

2007-12-31T09:34:00.000-08:00

I'm so glad that Erin McKenna followed that winding path, following the fervor of needing a memorable gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free cupcake. If she hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to eat at Babycakes.

Babycakes is simply the best little bakery I have ever stood inside. Tiny as a mini-muffin, Babycakes is just around the corner from the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, on Broome Street. It makes sense that Ms. McKenna opened her daring little bakery in this neighborhood, historically the land of immigrants and enormous hopes. (And also some of the best food in New York.)

It's an improbable story. Told three years ago that she can no longer eat gluten or dairy, Ms. McKenna decided to cut out sugar as well. Most of America, of course, would immediately cry: "What else is there to eat?" Well, so much more. Determined to still eat comfort foods after a lifetime of birthday parties and baking with her mother, this feisty young woman started experimenting with agave nectar and cold-pressed coconut oil as ingredients. A whiz in the kitchen, she impressed her friends with how genuinely fabulous it all tasted. And thus, a bakery was born.

Ah, but not so easy. The loan she tried to take out for her small business fell through. And even though the little shop is no bigger than a thimble, really, this is still Manhattan. So she and her co-workers have been pulling twelve-hour days, working for little pay, and essentially just praying that people will come in.

People are coming in.

When I was there with my friends Monica and Gabe, people strolled and sauntered into the place at a steady pace. And how could they resist? The place is just so darned adorable -- there's no other word for it. There's a certain kitschy, girly sensibility to the bakery. The women behind the counter wear pink, candy-striper aprons. The walls are a pleasing pastel palette. And everywhere are nostalgic signs from the 1950s, talking about frosting shots and the inability to please everyone.

As an indpendent woman in 2006, I feel blessed that I have choices that my grandmother and mother never had. They were obligated to be in the kitchen, cooking away all day. But me? I choose it. I have that luxury. For me, the signs and sensibilities of Babycakes were a way of paying homage to that generation, winking at them as we bake.

The morning I was in Babycakes was magic. After a brittle cold winter week, we had a warm Saturday morning. Everyone who walked into the bakery began smiling. I have to say, though, I'm sure that the enveloping smell of warm chocolate cake and tart lemon cupcakes mingling in the air enticed the smiles to emerge. Everything smelled wholesome and decadent at the same time.

We ordered a chocolate chip cookie and two cupcakes. Somehow, we resisted the gooey chocolate cake resting on the top of the counter. I had to take a photograph and let that take the place of throwing my mouth down and gobbling it all up in one bite. I restrained myself. But it smelled that good.

My friends and I walked out of the store, and into the sunlight. We took photographs on the sidewalk and laughed at ourselves. We bit down into our treats and murmured about their goodness. The cookie was crisp and thin, filled with oozing chocolate. And the cupcakes? Well, since I had already been to another gluten-free bakery that morning with my friends, and I was headed for a plane that afternoon, I let Monica take them home instead of eating them on the spot.

She reported joy upon eating them.

I ate well and gluten-free in a number of places in New York during my whirlwind eating tour. But in the end, I like Babycakes best. I only wish that I lived in the neighborhood, so I could visit its warmth more often. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, and I want to support my sisters. But it’s clear that these women are — in spite of the money worries, the small space, and the tremulous feeling of the unknown — having a great time. And in the end, isn’t that what we hope to do when we make food? Make a mouthful of joy for someone.

Give me a Babycakes over a Starbucks any day.

Babycakes
248 Broome Street
between Ludlow and Orchard
212.677.5047

Volterra

2007-12-31T09:24:00.000-08:00

Last evening, my dear friend Meri and I stumbled on a spectacular restaurant, all because the Indian restaurant we thought we wanted to visit was too full. As we wandered in the cold— fresh from a long walk around Greenlake in the blustery wind — searching for somewhere to eat in suddenly trendy Ballard on a Saturday night, I remembered a piece I had read in a newspaper this summer. “Hey, I think there’s a new Italian restaurant down this street. I seem to remember something about the couple who run it once living in Tuscany. Wanna try it?”

Ah, Volterra. Ah, the food.

We ate well. To start, a warm prawn and roasted fennel salad: enormous prawns sauteed in garlic; slivers of fennel; lamb’s ear lettuce; mandarin slices; a light champagne vinaigrette; spicy green olives with an unusual bite. Meri ordered a warm lentil and pork jowl salad. Never in my life did I think I could write this sentence honestly: I just love pork jowl. Before you protest, imagine this: thin, crackling slices of the essence of bacon taste, crunching among tiny brown lentils, along with small shreds of radicchio and arugula. Ah, the taste of it. Meri and I both just kept looking at each other, smiling and amazed, then diving our forks back into the pile of lentils before us.

In between dishes, we sipped on our wine. The wine list featured wines from all over Tuscany — including the “Supertuscans” — with some far out of my price range. The one we ordered was, admittedly, the cheapest one on the list. However, I certainly didn’t feel deprived. We drank a spicy, full-bodied blend of Washington-grown Shiraz, Cabernet, and Merlot, blended specficially for this restaurant. If you don’t know about the power of Eastern Washington wines, you should try some. I don’t have the knowledge or vocabulary to talk about wine well; I just know what I like. And this wine, I liked. Enormous personality, full in the mouth, and it simply deepened with every new dish. Or, as Meri said, about twenty times throughout the night, “Oh my god, the wine.”

And then, the entrees. By the time they arrived, Meri and I were already in ecstasies, but we simply weren’t prepared. She had the wild boar tenderloin with a gorgonzola sauce and sauteed rapini. Apparently, it was tender and not-at-all gamey. Judging from her little moans and sudden inability to listen to anything I had to say, I’m guessing it was ineffably good. However, I didn’t do that much talking, because my prawn and porcini risotto, with cream and lobster sauce, made me incapable of speaking. Oh lord — this was good. Every bite indelible, every spoonful a pleasure, every taste a measure of just how good food can be.

You may have noticed this: I don’t write about restaurants often on this site. For one, I don’t eat in restaurants that often, since I had to learn how to live gluten-free. Eating in restaurants is always a risky endeavor, and most of the time, I’m not willing to take the risk. Sometimes, I eat in places where I know I’m going to be safe: my favorite Indian restaurant; sushi when I bring my own bottle of wheat-free tamari; salads with friends for lunch. Nothing much to write about there, though. I want to only recommend a restaurant to those of you reading here if I feel like it’s spectacular.

Volterra is spectacular, not only for the fresh, creative food — an exquisite blending of the best of Tuscany and the Pacific Northwest — but also for the way they treated me when I told them I cannot eat gluten. Our wonderfully flamboyant waiter (Paul from Seville) understood me immediately when I explained my plight. He already knew about celiac disease, but he still went back three times to the kitchen to insure that flour didn’t lurk somewhere in places that neither one of us expected it. Later, he brought over one of the owners, the wonderfully voluble Michelle, who chatted with me about gluten-free food. She truly impressed me with how much she already knew. Later, Paul informed me that the chef wanted me to know that they keep Tinkyada pasta in the kitchen, in case any gluten-free customer wants to try one of the incredible pasta dishes. That’s a good restaurant — trying to keep every customer satisfied and safe.

Since that first meal, I have returned to Volterra dozens and dozens of times. The owners, Don and Michelle, have become friends of ours. (The Chef wasn't in my life when I first visited Volterra, but he has been back with me nearly every time since.) And, in perhaps the best meal we ever shared, Don and Michelle roasted a local lamb in fennel pollen for our wedding.

I could not recommend a restaurant more highly.

Volterra Restaurant
5411 Ballard Ave Northwest
Seattle Washington 98107
206.789.5100

Madwoman foods pizza

2007-12-31T09:19:00.000-08:00

I do like these little gluten-free frozen pizzas I ate tonight. Made by Madwoman Foods (and you have to love that name), these pizzas are made from organic ingredients, the freshest foods, then shipped out with a little cold pack inside. And they’re great. They taste like real cheese, fresh spices, a rush of old pizza memories coming back. And they weren’t the memories of frozen pizza from when I was a kid. I recommend them to you. And the little tea cakes they make, to which I’ve grown a little addicted, especially the chocolate orange cakes. These are especially good, and made with ghee, so people who are lactose intolerant could have these cakes as well. I love supporting small companies who are trying to do right in the world. I hope you do too.

Wusthof knives

2007-12-30T18:21:00.000-08:00

It was like falling in love at first sight. I held it in my hand, and I never wanted it to leave. It just felt good. Heavy, but not burdensome. Whole and solid and perfect. Holding it, and then chopping some potatoes with it, I knew that I needed to own it. Why look further when you’ve already found it? I trust my gut. I bought the Wusthof knife.

I took it home and looked at it. Took pictures of it. Slid it in and out of its cover and listened to the sword-like tzwing sound it made when it emerged from its shell. At first, I didn’t want to use it. It’s so pretty. But then, I broke that barrier and started chopping.

Here’s a friendly warning for you, if you’re planning on buying yourself a really good knife (and you should. You really should.): respect the knife. When I started slicing vegetables, I was in awe of the knife. I’ve never chopped so slowly in my life. Everything simply fell into small slices and tender nibbles without the least bit of trouble from me. Eager to cut and chop and dice and slice, I took every vegetable I had in the house, and watched it transform into magic under my hands. I was mindful and kind and watching and alive. It felt good. The minestrone soup that grew from a mound of vegetables filled me, entirely.

But let me tell you, I’m not going to take that knife for granted. It’s a beautiful knife. Whisper sharp and gleaming in the dark night kitchen. I plan on owning this one for at least another decade. And I can’t wait to eat all the meals that will appear, underneath my hands.

Le Creuset cookware

2007-12-30T18:17:00.000-08:00

The week after I broke my foot, I bought myself a tiny little Le Creuset pot. For years, I have been coveting this cookware. It's cast iron covered by enamelware, and it's beautiful. My dear friend Tita received a set for her wedding, over twenty-five years ago, and she's still using it on a nearly daily basis. I'm not married, and there's no one in sight. So waiting for a wedding to receive some Le Creuset seems terribly far away. Hell with the wedding. I bought myself some. Of course, I could only afford the mini cocotte, which fits into the palm of my hand. But it was enough. I roasted garlic in it and wrote about it happily, back in November.

Well, here's where the secret comes in. You see, someone (who shall remain nameless) read that little joyful post of mine, and decided to take fate into her own hands. My fairy godblogger, without my knowing it, sent that little post to the people at Le Creuset. She told them about my gluten-free exploits, how I've been extolling the virtues of cooking at home, and specifically, how much I love Le Creuset. They read it, liked my site, and agreed with her. I needed some more pots and pans.

And so, dear readers, this is how an entire set of Le Creuset, gorgeous and shining twilight blue, showed up on my doorstep last week. Out of the air, just before the holidays, unbidden, and glorious. My gleaming metal kitchen shelves are now festooned with the most beautiful cookware I have ever owned.

I've just been bursting with joy ever since.

Silverlake Farmers' Market

2007-12-30T18:11:00.000-08:00

I can’t visit a city without visiting a farmers’ market. Just down from Madame Matisse was the block-long Silverlake Farmers’ Market. Small in comparison to my local stomping grounds (Ballard or the University Farmers’ Market), this one was still sweet. Even sweeter for being in the middle of LA, somehow. Sharon stocked up on fresh corn and flowers. And I stopped to sample fresh bean curd at the Vietnamese Soy Cafe stall. Wow. I’d never tasted such supple, subtle bean curd, lightly flavored with ginger. I thought about ordering a glass of pennywort juice, since the woman running the stall told me it would clear out every toxin. But in the end, I chose more toxins: Vietnamese coffee, with sweet condensed milk. Ah, a small slathering of heaven.

Every Saturday from 8am-1pm
3700 Sunset Blvd
Between Edgecliffe Dr & Maltman Ave (intersection of Griffith Park Blvd)
For more info, call (323) 661-7771

Madame Matisse

2007-12-30T18:07:00.000-08:00

During my visit to Los Angeles, Sharon and Matt and I went to one of their favorite breakfast places, Madame Matisse. A tiny sliver of a restaurant on a corner of Sunset, this French bistro-style place had a red and white awning and little tables outside. Since this was November in Los Angeles, the air was about 74 degrees. Of course we’d sit outside.

In the middle of the menu, I found what I wanted, immediately. An omelette, with spinach, mushrooms, goat cheese, and salmon. Sharon had one too, but with asparagus instead of spinach. Matt ordered the meat and cheese extravaganza. We sat and chattered happily, watching the hipsters go by, discussing the previous night’s show, sipping our coffee eagerly. The food arrived, and we all dug in. Not extraordinary. Just damned good. Everything fresh, again.

And by this time, we were so hungry that I almost forgot to take a picture of it.

Madame Matisse
3536 W. Sunset Blvd., Silver Lake
323-662-4862

Angelina Osteria

2007-12-30T17:56:00.000-08:00

I wanted to give my dear friend Sharon a birthday present. What else could I give her but food? I decided, spontaneously, to treat her out to a lavish dinner at one of the best places in Los Angeles. (Well, the best within our price range.) But which restaurant? She likes one called Blair’s, in Silverlake, but it didn’t open for dinner until 6. And we had to be eating at 5:30, in order to make it on time to Matt’s sketch-comedy show at the Friars’ Club in Beverly Hills. (Yes, I do have a strange life.) Well, we consulted a charming guide book called Eat. Shop. LA, written by a charming woman from Portland, who writes a series of Eat. Shop guides for major cities on the West Coast. I love the Seattle book, so when I saw a copy of the LA guide at the Casbah, I convinced Sharon to grab it. After much consultation, and staring at the photographs of the food, we chose Angelina Osteria, ostensibly because the writer explained that her pickiest food friend in LA liked only one restaurant, and this was the one. How could we resist?

When I called in the early afternoon to make a reservation, the woman on the phone announced cheerfully, “I’ve got nothing open tonight.” Nothing? Not even at 5:30? Maybe she heard the disappointment in my voice and took pity, because after a beat, she said, “Okay, if you arrive exactly at 5:30, we’ll fit you in.” Hurrah!

And hurrah it was, because this was an extraordinary meal. Angelina Osteria is a warm, Tuscan place, with exquisite food based on what is fresh and in season. So many choices, including gluten-free choices. I told our ridiculously handsome Italian waiter that I couldn’t eat anything with gluten in it, and he looked a little confused, but we made our way through it. How to choose? Luckily, Sharon and I are sharers. Our entire time of knowing each other, 23 years now, we innately decide to order two separate meals and split them down the middle. So that night, we ordered two appetizers:

warm octopus salad on a bed of arugula, with baby cherry tomatoes (pictured above)

braised artichoke hearts with garlic, olive oil, and parsley

By the time these had arrived, Sharon and I were already wonderfully happy. To be in such a place, together, unexpectedly. And then we tasted our food.

“Oh god,” Sharon moaned. “This is really good. You have to try it now.”

She was right. The artichokes were deeply flavored, perfectly tender. And the octopus was better than I had ever eaten before, not a touch of rubber eraser texture to it. We ate a few bites each, then traded plates, back and forth, until we had cleaned our plates entirely. I would have licked up the artichoke marinade if I could have.

And the entrees?

warm duck breast with balsamic vinegar, with a side of perfectly sauteed spinach

seared ahi tuna drizzled with parsley pesto, with a side of eggplant and wild mushrooms

Everything tasted wonderfully fresh, the textures outrageously dense and light at the same time, in season, just picked, made for us. We couldn’t stop cooing over our food.

And dessert? Ah, dessert. Well, Sharon had a simple panna cotta, topped with a raspberry. The best one she’s ever eaten outside of Italy, she said. And I had three small scoops of vanilla gelato, with a perfectly pulled espreso poured on top. We didn’t talk for awhile. We even stopped sharing. We just leaned over our food and ate intently. My god.

We walked out onto Beverly Boulevard, happy and humming.

Angelina Osteria
7313 Beverly Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90036
323-297-0070

the Cheese Store of Silverlake

2007-12-30T17:53:00.000-08:00

Later, after strolling through small stores with hip clothes, intriguing antiques, and startling window displays, Sharon and I felt a bit peckish again. And she was eager to share her favorite food store with me. The Cheese Store of Silverlake is stocked from floor to ceiling with gorgeous gourmet foods from around the world. Vosges chocolates. Arborio rice from Italy. Apricot toffee. A local candy maker called The Little Flower Candy Company that makes sea salt caramels, vanilla caramels, and (my favorite) cinnamon-sugar marshmallows. Ah. Barrels of olive oils. Persimmons. And then, the cheeses. Sharon and I bought two small slices of two cheeses, each. I found some Drunken Goat, from Spain, which I simply adore, and Sharon had never tasted it before. She wanted me to try the Bar Durro, a hard cheese with a nutty quality. We stocked up on little gifts of food for ourselves, and we nibbled on them all weekend.

3926-28 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90029
323.644.7511

the Casbah Cafe

2007-12-30T17:49:00.000-08:00

Sharon lives in Silverlake, just off Sunset. The hipster capital of the world, seemingly. Everywhere slouched tremendously slender young men and women, dressed in thigh-hugging pants, holey shirts that probably cost a hundred dollars, gigantic sunglasses, soft-soled shoes, and fabulously dissheveled hair. Oh my. And of course, everyone looked tremendously bored, suffering for perpetual ennui. All the while they furtively worked on screenplays, or talked to their agents on their cell phone. Ah, LA.

But one of the best parts about Silverlake is the Casbah Cafe. A small corner store on Sunset, this place is cool without trying too hard to be so. The back half of the shop is filled to the brim with Moroccan shirts, yerba mate cups, and glittery pink slippers. Filled with light and slow moving, the Casbah feels like an oasis of sanity in the midst of the throngs pressing against the inevitablity of aging and not being famous, just outside.

And their coffee is pretty great. That’s saying something for a Seattle girl in Los Angeles.

Since Sharon and I woke up late enough Friday morning (after talking and laughing well into the night on Thursday) that breakfast had blurred into lunch, we walked straight to Casbah. And even though the menu, written on the glass cases filled with dates and olive breads, was mostly off limits to me, I found what I wanted pretty quickly. A sweet corn salad, with black, wrinkled olives, fresh tomatoes, and tuna. It arrived in an enormous bowl, mounded with vegetables and a light vinaigrette that danced on my tongue. With the sunlight filtering through the bamboo blinds, and Sharon across from me, this was a deeply satisfying meal.

3900 W Sunset Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90029-2242
Phone: (323) 664-7000

pomegranate molasses

2007-12-30T17:47:00.000-08:00

Okay, maybe the entire foodie community has already discovered pomegranate molasses, long ago. But it just started creeping into my consciousness. Molly mentioned that she had carried a jar back from Manhattan on one of her last jaunts. Hm, if it’s that special, why am I not eating it? I noticed it in scrumptious-looking recipes in Cooking Light. I usually quite like their recipes. What did they know that I don’t know? And finally, after my foot had been broken, my friend Dorothy brought me a little jar of the elixir. She had been so obsessed with the idea of cooking with it that she had bought a jar online, probably for ridiculous prices. How kind of her to share with me. She’s like that, Dorothy.

So I dipped my little finger into the dark liquid, and sipped from its tip. A wave of that tangy, assertive sweetness from pomegranate seeds, followed by the dark allure of molasses. Bright and alive, no blandness here. And it lingered, long after I had sucked the last dregs from my finger. I knew right then that I had to cook with it.

Cafe Flora

2007-12-30T17:34:00.000-08:00

When I find a restaurant where I can eat, with no fears of growing sick, I’m overjoyed. It felt almost impossible for awhile.

In June, after four months of not eating anything outside of the house, my dear friend Meri took me to Cafe Flora for dinner. We sat in the back, near the large windows pouring forth the light of late spring. Outside, a little courtyard, with Tibetan prayer flags stretched between the trees, waving in the breeze.

I had been there before, in years past, for family brunches, and the occasional lunch. It’s a vegetarian/vegan gourmet restaurant, with an open space for seating, including one large side room with a burbling fountain. I always liked the peaceful feeling of the place, but I mostly remembered eggs. Before, I had not thought of it when friends wanted suggestions as to where to eat.

But Meri had read somewhere that Cafe Flora was friendly to gluten-free diners, so she suggested we try it. She was about to leave for New York, and I was about to finish school for the year. Time for a celebration.

Our waiter came to the table with menus, filled our water glasses, and left. I opened my menu, then I nearly fainted. Behind the descriptions of nearly half the menu items, I saw this: (gluten-free). What? Oh my god. A restaurant where the waiters not only know what gluten is, but also care enough to label it for me? And the food isn’t merely a small salad with no dressing, and a piece of plain meat? I couldn’t believe my eyes. I really did start to cry, a little.

And then, when the meals arrived, I could only moan. Roasted polenta with spicy tomato sauce. Gorgeous cheeses. And a creme brulee creamy-crunchy-sweet enough to make me break down and weep. Truly great food, not rushed or thoughtless, not something I could have made myself, but truly great food, gluten-free, made for me.

And as an unexpected benefit, Meri treated me to the entire meal. What more could a gluten-free girl want?

Cafe Flora
2901 East Madison Street
Seattle, WA 98112
206.325.9100

Caffe Fiore

2007-12-30T17:07:00.000-08:00

I adore Caffe Fiore, so I knew this coffee would be good. Roasted in Seattle, in small batches, this coffee plays on the tongue and dances down the gullet. I’ve been drinking it for years, stumbling on it when I first returned to Seattle from New York. Drinking my first cup of it was like hearing small voices singing in my ear: “Welcome back!” And it turns out that the parent of one of my students years ago started the comapny, so sometimes I’d walk into my office, suddenly especially awake, to find a pound of coffee sitting on my desk. Also, Hans the Swiss man uses Fiore in his lovely coffee shop, Arosa. So having a Fiore spot near my home was reason enough to feel happy.

Everything in the shop is organic: the coffee; the whipping cream; the chocolate. Numi teas have a delicate taste, not the pounding-down too much of most American teas. Dagoba chocolates are some of my favorites, especially the lime and cherry, and they’re stamped gluten-free on the back. Even the syrups used to flavor the coffee are gluten-free. Apparently, Monin experimented with making batches of organic syrups, but they didn’t sell because of the extra cost. The owner told me that he found out the stash of organic syrups were sittting in a warehouse in Florida, and he bought up the lot. The milk for the coffee drinks is hormone free, but customers have to ask for the organic because it is quite a bit more expensive. But it’s there, in the refrigerator.

This place excites me. Not only because the coffee tastes damned good and they have gluten-free treats. But also because I believe so deeply in organic foods, in authentic tastes, and in people who start small businesses with the idea that they’d like to do something right in the world.

And they sell gluten-free baked goods.

I'm happy to have this place be my neighbor.

Queen Anne: 224 W Galer St, Seattle (206) 282-1441
Ballard/Sunset Hill: 3125 NW 85th St, Seattle (206) 706-7580
Old Ballard: 5405 Leary Ave NW, Seattle

Pioneer Organics

2007-12-30T17:01:00.000-08:00

Just after I stopped eating gluten, I started receiving a big, brown box of organic produce on my doorstep every other Tuesday morning. Pioneer Organics is a wonder, one of my favorite parts of living in Seattle. They bring me always-organic, usually local, and just-in-season produce. Right now, my kitchen is filled with sunlight and possibilities of meals all week long. The quality is extraordinary. I'm never disappointed. And it lands on my doorstep.

Sur la Table

2007-12-30T16:57:00.000-08:00

Sur La Table will steal your money. Oh, I suppose it isn’t really stealing, since you hand over your credit card to them. But this exquisite cooking store is designed so nicely, nicely enough to make you wander through the shelves with your mouth hanging open in amazement.

Le Creuset cookware. Pasta makers from Italy. Large plates in vivid jewel tones. Garlic presses. Espresso machines. Pepper grinders. Walls of cookbooks. Silpats. Kitchen-Aid food processors....Okay, I’m out of breath just thinking about it.

The people who work there are wonderfully knowledgeable and low-key Seattle. They don’t bob around you, saying, “Can I help you? Can I?” But when you have a question, they know. They’re all cooks and gourmets.

My dream is to someday own every single thing in Sur La Table. That’s why I consider myself lucky that today I walked out with only: a new plate, saucer, and bowl; a Zyliss food chopper; a ravioli press; and a Jamie Oliver cookbook.

I can only go in so often.

DeLaurenti's

2007-12-30T16:55:00.000-08:00

DeLaurenti’s is a gourmet, gluten-free girl’s dream. Stuffed with unusual foods, expensive olive oils, and more luxuries that will soon become basics than any place I have ever been, DeLaurenti’s always tempts me. As I walked by with some friends today, they suggested we stop in. “Oh no,” I said. “We have to eat lunch first. If I go in there hungry, I spend $140 without even thinking about it.”

El Puerco Lloron

2007-12-30T16:51:00.000-08:00

Down the hill from the Market proper, on the Pike Street Hillclimb, El Puerco Lloron is a little gem you might easily miss. Look for the brass pig in front.

When we first walked in, I noticed the young Mexican woman behind the counter, pulling off a mass of dough from her pile of fresh masa, pressing them into the tortilla press, and flipping them on the griddle, methodically. “Hey, I did that yesterday!” I thought, then pointed out to my friends. Of course, hers were much more even.

It’s an unpretentious place, with wobbly tables and a breeze blowing through the windows. As someone had written in the newspaper review tacked up on the wall, it’s like a little cantina on a border town. Ten choices, all with warm corn tortillas.

I had the biscet de pollo, which was grilled chicken in a spicy red sauce, with fluffy rice and pinto beans. And a Jarritos lemon-lime soda. And I’m guessing that wheat flour has never touched the place. I was beaming with the good food, knowing I wasn’t going to get sick.

Ener-G foods sesame pretzels

2007-12-30T16:46:00.000-08:00

Just after I went gluten-free, I bought a package of these at Fred Meyer, along with a dozen other packages of gluten-free foods in their impressive little section. Afterwards, on the way to the Flying Apron bakery to buy some gluten-free treats, I was stuck for a long time at a stoplight. Impatient and a little hungry, I rustled around in the shopping bag on the seat to my right and grabbed out the small bag and opened it. Tentatively, of course.

The first gluten-free replacement foods I tried at first were a little dusty, a little dry, a little disappointing. And I love pretzels. So I popped one in my mouth, determined to set my face with false appreciation and reassure myself, “Oh, this won’t be so bad.” I wish I had a picture of my face in that moment. Pure, joyful surprise.

Small and studded with sesame seeds, these pretzels are better than replacements. They’re fabulous. In fact, at this point, after having eaten, oh, say forty bags of them, I can say this safely: these are my favorite pretzels of all time. No exceptions.

Ballard farmers' market

2007-12-30T16:38:00.000-08:00

The Ballard Farmers' Market is one of the wonders of Seattle--the weekly farmers’ markets. Nearly every neighborhood in Seattle has one running, from May to October. On Sundays, several streets in Ballard are blocked off to traffic. White flags wave in the breezes. People stroll with dogs and kids, everybody smiling. And there are thirty or forty booths, filled with fresh rasberries, spicy arugula, golden beets, and goat cheeses. Hippie-looking women sell hand-crafted candles and pink sandstone jewelry. And there are hot crepes, pizza slices from brick ovens, and sauteed Asian vegetables. Men with long hair talk philosophically with their short-haired girlfriends. And everyone looks like they live in Seattle: little makeup, fresh-scrubbed faces, wide-open glances, dressed in environmentally friendly clothes, and kind. Sometimes, a little insufferable with how earnest they are trying to be. But the peaches are so juicy that they drip down my fingers when I eat them. The blueberries burst open. And the bing cherries taste sweeter because I know this is the last week of the year I can have them. I came home with a bag full of fresh fruit, a handmade blue cheese, and a bouquet of sunflowers. You have to come see it for yourself.

So this afternoon, for lunch, I had a giant salad made entirely of fresh greens and local produce. Arugula, sliced French radishes, ripe avocado, soft goat cheese, kalamata olives, some fresh lemon juice, and olive oil. And sea salt. I also had a dash of that on the organic corn on the cob I ate, with just a touch of clarified butter.

Anyone who complains about the gluten-free diet needs to come to my house in the summer. This is about abundance, not being denied. I've never eaten so well in my life.

Central Market

2007-12-30T16:34:00.000-08:00

Once I realized that it was just a giant grocery store, and not an entire city of food, the way it had been described, I calmed down and started shopping. In the bakery section, I ran to a refrigerator unit that stood under an enormous, dangling sign: "Vegan and Gluten-Free Desserts!" My god, has the world morphed into a gluten-free one for my benefit? Most the desserts were merely vegan, but they did have a good supply of Flying Apron bakery goods. I love their work, but I can buy them in Fremont.

The grocery store part of the store really is just ordinary. They don't even have any gluten-free cereals! However, they have an extraordinary array of Asian foods, rivalled only stores in the International District here. I saw an en enormous pickled radish the size of a small baseball bat, flourescent yellow and shrink wrapped in the refrigerated section. It frightened and fascinated me. And I did buy some edamame from China that I cooked today.

But the shining glory of the place, and why I'll go back, is the produce section. An entire warehouse of organic fruit and vegetables. And not just the ordinary ones, or the ones we consider exotic at other stores. Mizuna leaves. Thai eggplants. Dark green leafy plants I had never heard of, and no idea how to cook them. (If you'd like to see more photos of the fruit, take a look at my flickr account.) A jolly man was dispensing bites of fruit at its peak, and I happened by as he was handing out golden cherry tomatoes. I don't even like those in any other time of the year, but I raced to the part of the produce section for an abundant pint of them.

I went home happy.

Vignalta sea salt

2007-12-30T16:32:00.000-08:00

A note about sea salt. I'm a raving loonie when it comes to this stuff. It's only in the last year that I even ventured into the expensive bottles of salt area of the store. I'll never go back to regular salt again. Twice the flavor with half the sodium. It makes all foods pop out. My latest find is the one pictured here: Vignalta from Venice. Buy it. You won't believe how good it is.

cookbook: Splendid Grains

2007-12-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

During my brief jaunt to Port Townsend (more on this later), I found a copy of The Splendid Grain. Splendid it is. Written by Rebecca Field, an obviously thoughtful writer on whole foods, it's bursting with brilliant ideas on how to cook with the unusual grains. Translation: the gluten-free grains. Yes, there is one section of the book that will remain pristine and stain free in my kitchen: wheat, barley, rye, and oats. But everything else is safe. And everything sounds delicious.

Can you taste these?

Strawberry and Blue Corn Waffles
Southwestern Cheese Sandwiches with Sweet and Hot Pepper Sauce
Quinoa Tarts with Kiwi Sauce
Jicama and Buckwheat Salad

Yum.

This is one of the parts I love best about this diagnosis and the gluten-free life I'm living now: the constant discovery. I can't eat gluten, but I'm gobbling up knowledge. Ravenously. I can't stop trying new recipes, far more daring concoctions than my old standbys. I've always been a good cook, but before my diagnosis, I was eating the same, plodding meals, over and over. Not anymore.

And there's something deeply satisfying about exploring grains and foods from around the world, learning about the history of tef in Ethiopia. (Fascinating.) Somehow, this feels like honoring the experience of people other than Americans. And I'm happy to do that, protesting narrow-mindedness by eating. My favorite form of social protest, actually.

Given how much I adore food, I love that my new life means that I'll soon be eating popped amaranth for breakfast or making tef flour in my coffee grinder. Never could you have told me that this would be my life.

cardamom chai cupcakes from Flying Apron Bakery

2007-12-30T16:16:00.000-08:00

The Flying Apron Bakery
— a small, local bakery in Seattle, run by a father and daughter team. A few years ago, they started making vegan treats, most of them gluten-free, out of a little space underneath Cedars restaurant. Lines started to form. Even before I had given up gluten, I used to stop for their tahini cookies after my stroll around the University Farmers' Market on Saturday mornings. Now, they make baked goods at their warm and inviting cafe in Fremont. And some of the best coffee shops in town carry their cookies and bars, which is a wonderful surprise when I wander in for a soy chai.

I recommend these, entirely. Well, they could probably use a tad more xantham gum, as the goods grow too dry and flaky pretty quickly. (That is, to be honest, probably because of the lack of dairy.) But, if you buy it the day they make it, there's no mistaking it for anything other than what it is: a damned fine baked good treat.