I stepped out the door, determined to not let the weather hamper plans. The forecast was for two to three inches of fluffy, wintery, white. I decided by looking at the multiple inches outside that we were the “lucky ones.” As I trudged around town in those early hours, it became obvious our hilly neighborhood was not alone. I alternately ran in the street, where there were decidedly fewer cars than normal, or jumped to the side and pushed the accumulating inches. When I finally looped back to our apartment, decidedly more worked-out than I had intended, the flurry mass of winter wonder came down in full force.
We had record-breaking weather this December. Nine inches and something like five days below freezing all in one go left me feeling humbled. Since I live on that big ol’ hill and all the local accidents were at the bottom of it, I decided to spend those days hoofing it around town.
After an unexpected week of slowing down and spending time in manual transport, I am more at peace and connected to my community. I took time to enjoy the cheery Christmas trees peeking through the house windows. I could take in the season’s lights slowly and know exactly which intersections were the most icey. I now know there are a couple horses at the Horse Center that are bad neighbors. Robert Frost’s philosophy about fences doesn’t work with them.
I walked to the grocery store. On ice and then again in the melting mess (which was worse!) the second time. I almost lost it. Twice. I was thankful for a co-worker who through an unrelated phone call, made me forget my bad temper and live on. I smiled at the kids that made our driveway a very slick, very steep, and pretty awesome sledding hill. I almost joined them. I wish I had.
In that week when Christmas shopping plans were postponed and the thought of tree-decorating came to a halt, when running became an act for extreme-adventure-seekers only, and I circled only within a two mile radius from the home hill for seven days, I came to know what the holiday season should be.
Take time to slow down and reflect on the end of a year well-lived. Be grateful for all that we have. Accomplish good deeds towards others. Get out of the bubble. Expand the perception of what can be accomplished. This season is not about the hustle and bustle. It is not about finding the perfect gift. It is about cherishing each moment as it comes.
Neah’s Apple {loaf} Cake, makes one large 9×5 loaf or four mini-loaves
Recipe Updated: 11/2023
This is my version of my dear grandma Neah’s recipe. I remember making it multiple times with her growing up. Her name for it was Raw Apple Cake, which I always thought to be be misleading. There are a whole lot of raw apples in the batter, so I can see where it got its name. I have adapted the recipe to align with a gluten and dairy-free lifestyle, as well as cut down on the sugar. The apples shine through and I found extra sweetness was unnecessary. Feel free to experiment with different spices as well as add-ins, such as raisins, walnuts, or dates. We used to make several batches, each cake being slightly different.
1/2 cup /110 gr coconut oil or dairy-free butter
1 cup / 200 gr sugar
2 eggs
3 1/2 cups apples (about 4 large), shredded with skins on
2 cups (240 gr) gluten-free flour mix
2 tsp. baking soda
1/3 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder
1 heaping tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 tsp. ginger
1/8 tsp. cloves
- Whip together the oil and sugar until fluffy. Whisk in the eggs and thoroughly combine. Shred those apples (and not your fingers!) and stir em’ in.
- In a separate bowl, stir together the remaining dry ingredients. Mix those into the apple bowl.
- Spoon the batter into a large oiled and floured baking pan, or four mini-pans (I made mini-cakes for gifts). Bake at 350 degrees F for 35 minutes for mini-cakes or 55-60 minutes for a large 9×5″ loaf cake.
“Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you.”
– Letters to a Young Poet, Rainier Maria Rilke
The truth is, the beginning is blurry. When I squint back into the depths of my childhood, my thoughts were not long off of food. I would take cookbooks to bed at night, squinting into the flashlight-shadows, long after my sister had demanded I put our shared, bunk-bedded room into darkness. Looking back at the shy, quiet, anxious little person that I was then, I recall only that I felt most at home in the kitchen. I still do.
It began then, I think, with playdough. My mom mixed up homemade playdough. I remember seeing the recipe on a worn index card in her gray metal recipe box, a box that to this day holds her most cherished recipes. There were two recipes in that box that were beyond intriguing to my child-mind: elephant ears and playdough. The first was something that I had never considered could be made outside of a hot, steamy, trailer-kitchen at the county fair. The second was the only non-food recipe that I’ve ever known my mom to have on hand. I must have asked her, and she mixed up a batch for us. I don’t remember much after beyond the whirl of the mixer blades, and the fact that my mom brought me into the kitchen, handed me the measuring cups, and taught me fractions.
From that moment when I learned to turn on the mixer, to scoop flour into the measuring cups, to follow recipe instructions, up to now, nearly 20 years later, I’ve been most at home in any place surrounded by food. It fascinates me in its cultural symbolism, use as a socio-economic tool and weapon, as a draw to family gatherings and entire holiday celebrations, and, most importantly, in its most simple form as basic sustenance for the hunger in all of us.
In those simple childhood days, those most-remembered foods symbolize the dearly loved and oft-hated. My favorites from that gray box included our neighbor’s recipe for honey-cinnamon swirl rolls, my mom’s homemade bread, and leftover-oatmeal cookies with just the right amount of spice. There was my favorite breakfast, dad’s “stinkbug porridge”, which was a simple concoction of raisins and brown sugar. And then the fresh milk from our cow, Betsy, with flakes of cream floating amongst my morning cheerios. I had to plug my nose to get the milk down after staying an extra hour at the table gathering the resolve to drink it. Now looking back, I realize what a precious experience to have been raised in a place where our milk came right from the cow.
In this new year and new beginning of sorts, I am reminded of how I am drawn to food as a means of communication and connection. I am reminded of the beginning, how I learned in the kitchen with my mom and the whirl of the blender blades that are still in her cupboard today. I am reminded that food is special, and that when I go into myself, as Rilke suggests, the only answer I come back with is, yes, I must create.
Though I can no longer enjoy thick slices of my mom’s bread, or partake in flecks of cream floating in the cow’s milk, I hold in my heart and in my cooking a focus on good, simple, nourishing food, in whatever way it can be most enjoyed. I am looking forward to this year to come, and the creations it will bring.
Pomegranate, Kale & Pancetta Spaghetti, serves 3
Pomegranates have been often in our kitchen this winter, more than ever before. This creation happened spontaneously and naturally, out of ingredients we had on hand one evening. It will become a favorite, I’m thinking, in the many wintery days ahead. If you have not used pomegranate molasses, it can be found at a well-stocked grocery store, online, or you can make your own by reducing pomegranate juice in a sauce pan. Don’t leave it out in this dish; it will be missed.
6 oz. brown-rice spaghetti (or any type that you prefer)
4 oz. pancetta, diced
1 medium onion, chopped
1 large bunch kale, chopped (I prefer Tuscan but any type will do)
1/4 tsp. salt
3 Tbs. pomegranate molasses
1 Tbs. orange zest
seeds from one pomegranate
salt and black pepper, to taste
GUTSy Performance Nutrition 