My sister-in-law from Texas.

Our niece, daughter of Richard’s late oldest sibling.

Our daughter.

Take out.

The fortune cookie that said, A gathering of friends brings you lots of luck this evening. And it did, for sure. But not quite enough to finish that James Christensen puzzle together before they called it a night for the aunt who’s on Eastern time.

I wasn’t as much of a help as I might have been on that; I tried, but finally told them (having been to the doctor this afternoon with everybody at the clinic wearing face masks so, no lipreading possible) I solve puzzles aurally all day long, do you mind if I knit?

Not at all.

And then, since the niece was wearing her cashmere cowl I’d given her as her experiment to see if that was the one animal fiber she could tolerate, and turns out she loved it, I confessed that the 50/50 cashmere/cotton afghan I was working on was–for her. I didn’t quite say, and now that I know it’ll be comfortable for you I can really dive in and stop hesitating.

Thirteen inches and it is on its way. Man, that feels good.

Cleaning up in the kitchen, I came across a few not terribly old chocolate bars but they’d become untempered and in the wrong crystalline structure, some had begun to crumble. Nothing wrong with the taste but definitely wrong on the texture. Another just looked funny with the cocoa fat blooming on the surface. Oh, and the very last of a batch of homemade.

One of the things about coconut cream is that you can have it on hand in the pantry, and I did, but since those others were commercially made bars and the wrappers were lost there was no guaranteeing they were dairy free (sorry). Even so, coconut and chocolate are not a bad pair.

I broke them up and covered them freely with the coconut cream, stirring to get every piece submerged at least once to keep the chocolate from seizing, then microwaved just enough to melt the chocolate. Wire whisked. Meantime, I mixed a cup of flour with a scant teaspoon of baking powder, a bit of salt, I mean, we’re just winging it here, and set two eggs to whip till nice and frothy. Then a quarter cup of sugar, then another nearly quarter cup into the eggs: most of that chocolate had been unsweetened and we’re talking baked goods here.

I went to put the flour mixture in, hesitated about halfway in thinking, that’s too much, and then poured the rest anyway.

I was right, it was a bit too much and the cake’s a bit dry. But Richard loved it, even though it was still not all that sweet, and that’s what mattered.

I’m thinking that, though quite small in height, it fits James Beard’s description of what day-old angel food cake is for: it makes a great toast.

Thin slices baked to crispness, cooled, and spread with Nutella for breakfast: I have plans.

(Skein of yarn silicone pan link here. The trick is to let the cake cool completely, then put it in the fridge and set a timer for ten minutes. I put it in just before it was completely cool so it came out of the mold almost but not quite perfect.)

Picture taken before all that vegan butter and sugar were added.

In case you ever needed to know, if you use one of those cheapo little $10 (it was then, anyway) battery-powered apple peelers and start right at the top on a big Granny Smith, yes you can, in fact, get a continuous length of apple peel long enough to be able to go play jump rope with.

“Mom, what are you *doing*!”

You might consider washing your sweater after you try it out, though. But it didn’t break!

We were having ice cream in celebration of the splurge of a bottle of coconut-cream caramel sauce with pumpkin spice because why not. A novelty to us and a favorite for her and she’d found one at the store today even though Thanksgiving is well over.

She made sure we knew that you had to mix the contents up with that spoon first.

My brain has a ’60’s or ’70’s song for everything and I found myself singing in cheerful anticipation, Stir it up. Little darling, stir it up, ohh yeah… I mentioned that I didn’t remember who sang it, just the song.

My better half instantly opined, Bob Marley–but I think it’s shake it up, it’s not stir it up.

Yonder daughter already tapping on her phone came right back with: Dad’s right, it’s Bob Marley. But it IS, Stir it up.

She put down the phone and looked at me in a mixture of wonderment and almost laughing, *MOM* heard the lyrics right! And *Dad* remembered them wrong!

Good to know we’re still doing our jobs and surprising our kids.

(And more peach flowers.)

Boxes. Cats love the ones that are just small enough. Kids turn big ones into spaceships and trucks. There’s so much magic lurking inside plain brown cardboard.

There was a box at the front door. It was not expected and not mine. Electronics? Tools? Hey, I know, designer clothes! (As if!) I looked closer.

Ah, yes, okay. The brand that makes the vanilla soy milk she likes has mostly discontinued it, I imagine due to the extreme price of real vanilla on the world market these days, and they’ve been trying to get their customers to substitute this new grain-based stuff even if they don’t want to. When you can’t bake a cake with dairy, though, you’ve got to have something.

Thus the, Hey–your oat cookture is here!

I got a heads-up from a dairy-allergic friend two days ago: Mutari Chocolate‘s building is being torn down and they were being forced to move, without a place to land yet. Go, she said. Valentine’s is their last day.

NO! Oh, man…

And so the three of us headed over the hills to Santa Cruz to support Michelle’s favorite chocolate maker. Their stuff is pricey–but extremely good. And safe for her to just simply go and eat out like a normal person, which has been such a gift for her.

I feel like I’m out of practice after these past two years, but I wanted to thank them and support them and encourage them in whatever may come next. So I grabbed four Malabrigo Mecha hats knit of many a Sunday Zoom session and managed, from the back seat, to thread a yarn needle and run the ends in on the three that needed it, despite the steep twists and curves of Highway 17 through the mountains.

We knew it might well be our last chance. We knew we were going to splurge.

That turned out to be a definite understatement.

The chocolate machinery in that place, the music, and of course the masks are all not conducive to my hearing much at all in there and I’ve always just been the pleasant but deaf mom picking out what I want and letting the others have their conversations. But this time the familiar face of one woman lit up when she saw me–and not only did it mean the world to me, in that moment I felt how much having to let go of this place and our coming at this time meant to her.

And that answered my inner question right there. Yes.

And so the purse was opened and I asked her to pick a color. She exclaimed and chose the one in soft purples and browns that could be cacao pods by the colors. Perfect. I suddenly wished I had more of those to offer.

The woman behind her picked a bright blues and greens mix.

Did I see someone working in the back? I asked.

Yes. And so the first woman picked one out for that woman, too, and walked over to that room to share it.

It was my Don’t Go parting gift. My pleading of Please Make It Back Here. Even though Santa Cruz rent is crazy.

They are going to tour some of the farms around the world that grow their cacao beans and then come back here and start searching for a new spot.

They do, in fact, have a second location: in Watsonville, so their website will remain up and running during what is hopefully just an interim.

I was so glad I had a way to say thank you for all the chocolate and the welcoming and the allergen conscientiousness that’s been so freeing for our daughter.

Who, as she drove us back north, said with both wishing and hesitation, Watsonville. That’s…quite a drive.

Yes, but note that at least your cousin does live near there.

Applesauce Honey cake at Spruce Eats is the winner so far. Cocoa in boiling water substituted for the coffee.

The afghan: if I stop at the last row of the pattern, #40, then the top and the bottom won’t mirror. As written, it starts with pairs of cables and ends just before the cabling, because of course when you’re repeating over and over, but not so much when you’re coming to a stop. So I’m thinking I’ll end after a pair of cables and half a motif, meaning, row #32. Or #12 on a ninth repeat, which I have just enough yarn for.

My niece and her husband are both tall. Right now it’s 64″ unblocked with 5.5″ to go if I stop at #32 once you factor in the ribbing.

Which I really really want to do right now, but having gotten this far, if I need to go on I’ll go on and my rule of thumb is to match the person’s height so it can cover their feet. No skimping. Plus it came out a little narrower than I wanted at 48″, but with a lot of sideways stretch so no problem–except that that pulls the length downwards quite a bit.

And on a side note: it occurred to me today that I could go into the local paint store, buy a paint chip that matches it, and send that off to ask if they all like the color without giving away what’s up.

Because they would never, ever suspect me of knitting. Right?

A cup of honey? Let’s try that one.

The 30 minutes totally didn’t do it–it was in there for 45 before the top tested done and turned that nice golden brown (and the darn thing stopped shaking like jello.)

A half hour later it looked like this. Still pretty good, right?

And then we cut into it. And it was.

But the bottom was definitely overdone. The top was definitely underdone.

And that’s when I learned something new: my daughter said that the standard size for loaf pans has changed over the years to being wider and lower so things bake faster and more evenly. My pans are old and narrow and high.

It was still good enough to eat, and we definitely did; it was kind of like angel food cake gone orange–it had no fat whatsoever and was a bit dry. (Note that I added a bit of salt where none was called for.)

While I was waiting for it to come out of the oven, DebbieR found two recipes for Alton Brown’s Aunt Verna’s Honey Cake. I’d made the version from The Food Network. But the one from his site–has salt. And butter. And orange juice. And sugar. Half the eggs, but still that cup of honey, and I want to ask, Honey, what does your Aunt Verna think of the discrepancies?

I’ve got to try that second one.

His loaf is wider and lower. There you go.

Maybe mine fell because I opened the oven three times while testing and expecting 30 minutes to have been enough when the second recipe (albeit with more ingredients) said 60. But it also says time to make is 35 minutes, so, huh. Y’know, I worked as a copyeditor a thousand years ago in case y’all need to hire one over there…

I have me more testing to do.

Suddenly all my jars of remaindered honey amounts don’t look like quite so much after all. I just have to finish de-crystallizing them all.

Mom, do you know how many jars of honey you have?!

She’d just pulled them all out of the cabinet in disbelief.

Chocolate almond torte cupcakes, I’d call them. Chocolate teacakes to them. Celiac friendly. Not overly sweet.

Those of us who bake are familiar with the instructions to separate eggs and beat the whites at the last till they’re nice and frothy, put a little of them into the rest of the mixed ingredients, and fold the rest in carefully so you don’t smush the air out and then get that thing in the oven just as fast as you can.

What I had never encountered before were the instructions to do so–and then leave the whole thing alone for an hour and not only that but before you spoon it out into the pan.

Ottolenghi said, Trust us. Don’t skip this step–you need the almond flour to soak in the moisture of the other ingredients for the sake of the texture of the cupcakes to come.

(I used cocoa and boiling water for the instant coffee granules and boiling water called for because I’m Mormon like that.)

And they were right. I was surprised at what a difference it made, and wondered why it hadn’t said this on their other almond flour-based recipe I’d tried earlier.

It said it made 18. Who has an 18-muffin pan? The classic metal 12-pan took 24 minutes and the silicone 6-pan was quite done in 20. Curious.

Eh, I thought this morning, looking at my wet hair, why bother with this. Who’s going to see me anyway.

And instantly thought back at myself, well that’s one way to guarantee the day’s not going to go how you expect. So I pulled it back after all to tame that one weird curlicue that just needs to get long enough to get heavy enough so as not to play half-deelybobber.

About three o’clock the doorbell rang. (Told me so.)

I opened the door, was surprised, and teased, Hey! I remember you!

It was one of Chris’s guys. They had had a free moment so he was coming over to clean off that plaster-looking stuff below one skylight and to paint over the wrong color paint over the nails on another one that I’d mentioned to his boss a couple weeks ago.

I had a baking project at mis en place, measured and laid out but not yet creamed nor mixed or poured, and half-apologized that had I known he was coming I’d have started sooner so he could have gotten some. He reminisced over the cranberry bars I’d shared that he’d liked so much he’d asked for the recipe. Good times. (But I wasn’t going to stand in his way in the kitchen with plaster bits or whatever it was falling down from above, thanks.)

And now I don’t have to have that one nagging thought looking up of, I wish they’d finished this. They did. It’s done. They were little things, but it’s so much better now.

The blueberry teacake update: we needed a dairy-free version now, so I used Mayoki cultured cashew-blend butter substitute. I doubled the blueberries (not to mention Ottolenghi’s 1/8th tsp salt recommendation.) It totally worked, because you put them on top and leave them whole and they don’t mess up the texture. Definitely an improvement on a great thing.

Meantime, up in the Pacific Northwest, Lillian, age two, insisted on putting at least a napkin at Michelle’s place at the dinner table to try to get her to still be there.

A local small farm was supplying a restaurant, and you know how that goes these days. And so they got three other farms together and put a notice on Nextdoor.com, as one does when one has no advertising budget, about their new CSA.

I was surprised there were any farms left at all two towns over, but apparently there are, so you can’t get much more local than that. Straight up the road. I signed up. Plus I’m pretty sure one of the names is someone I know.

Yesterday was supposed to be the first delivery day. They said 7-9 pm was the goal but it might take a little longer as they found their way around on these new routes.

I figured they were being optimistic but I also didn’t want my veggies sitting outside attracting critters, so last night I was opening the front door every half hour or less to make sure my box hadn’t been put in that one spot you just can’t quite see from inside.

Ten-thirty. No go. Maybe they should just wait till the morning.

There was a mass email offering apologies for how long it was taking.

Eleven p.m., ready to crash, and there it was! They did it! I opened the door–

–and got the full impact of what delivering it that late had meant for the driver. I don’t know if they took the direct hit or not. I’m really hoping not, and given the intensity I’d say either the skunk was still recharging its batteries from the last time it told the neighbor’s dog to get lost or it was in the dog’s back yard again and took it up on that barking dare. But whatever, it was close enough to give a good dose to open those lungs right up, breathe deep now, best asthma treatment on the planet, there you go.

Right, right, I’m sure the driver was sooo happy for the treatment.

I sent the farm a note today hoping they were okay and that it wouldn’t dissuade them from keeping me on their list and that if helped any, skunks are wanderers. They only stay put when they’re raising young.

Which, of course, they will be doing soon, but hey, I’ve got the rabbits over here, that’s my fair share. (Don’t. Tempt. Karma, Alison.)

My daughter once gave me a raspberry cupcake with icing that was mascarpone mixed with lemon curd and I so needed that recipe. She said it was in the book, “Sweet” by Ottolenghi and Goh. I put it on my wishlist for Christmas. And so I’ve now made them myself, and they are very very good, though for us old farts I’d probably halve the icing amount.

I was wondering out loud yesterday how best to pull together almond flour and blueberries in a cake. I’ve done it, but four cups of blueberries like my regular-flour cake left it a bit soggy at the bottom. Hey, I bet…yup they did, page 88. With lemon juice and zest and an excuse to stroll out to the Meyer tree. Four eggs, 2 cups almond flour, fruit, not too much sugar. Health food!

Well, yeah, and butter, but we’re pretending not to notice that. A half tablespoon apiece is okay, right?

And though the proportion of fruit was somewhat less, they too were worth the whole book and easy to make. I thought I would freeze some towards future breakfasts but they’re disappearing too fast.

Should you ever want a good desserts cookbook that is fantastic but doesn’t go way overboard on the sugar (so far, at least), I highly recommend that one.

My longtime arborist stopped by today because I wanted a quote on some pruning that was higher up than I’m willing to go. He was surprised when I asked him at the end if he liked dark chocolate–why, yes, he does, very much–and then opened the front door and grabbed him one of those plisse’ things and told him what it was. That was fun.

The somewhat less fun but worthwhile thing was going in for a mammogram yesterday.

It created one of those weird moments where the pandemic makes invisible people real, and necessary, where you never knew they even ever were: there was a little window on the arm into the innards of the machine, just a few inches across and with a light inside so you could see how the thing flexed as they moved it in place next to the squish table thingamagummy.

And it was dusty. Quite. Inside an enclosed space with no opening as far as I could see, with that little light at the back showing just how the tiny, uneven, fuzzy bits cascaded down the little diagonal whatever in there. Dust bunny-foot, mid-hop.

I marveled out loud, the tech being an amiable sort, and she knew exactly what I was talking about.

“Oh we’re not allowed to touch those.”

Turns out the manufacturer has people whose job it is to clean those inside parts, which the patients are never exposed to, so, given covid restrictions and workers out sick (or maybe they’d quit) and the fact that it would physically affect nobody to just leave it like that for the moment, there had been no one on hand to do that particular job that I would never even have known existed.

I’m still left with the question hanging of, why? Why did they make it that way?

So that this whole x-ray vision thing can be a two-way street between patients and our non-robot overlords?

Two years from now I’ll be looking to see if it still looks like that. Which is the weirdest way to get a patient to book the next routine appointment ever.