Long, long ago, and in a faraway place, a restless wandering teen found herself at a rainbow picnic in a drizzly Northwestern city. There she ate some tofu, and Lo! It was delicious, which nobody had ever expected…
Anyway, that was me and I still occasionally experiment with tofu because I know it can be done and I want to see if I can do it. I like a challenge, and, if you know more than three people (vegan or not) who actually get excited to eat the quivery blobs then, well, you know different people than me, I guess.
Scones are on the list of foods I detested from childhood because I’d never had them prepared quite to my tastes. I associated the word “scones” with the heeby-jeeby tactile sensation I get from pulling wet sweaters out of the washing machine or squeezing cotton balls. Sounds weird, I know, but that’s what scones reminded me of until a recent 4:30 a.m. airport adventure with all three of my kits in tow. After baggage was checked and carry-on’s were rifled through to a soundtrack of tired toddler wailing, we passed a coffee/tea/baked goods stand from a chain I’m not familiar with and don’t remember the name of.
Regardless of whether or not I can come up with an articulate sentence about the stuff, flatbread is definitely having a moment, and it’s surprisingly easy to make if you have the time. Versatile, too, making delicious sandwiches or quesadillas even though it isn’t quite bread and isn’t quite tortillas, either. I have big plans to try baking some into dip chips in the unlikely event that I ever have leftovers.
Bananas almost always fit my budget, so I almost always have a few on hand that need to be eaten today or be bread tomorrow. Sometimes I don’t want banana bread, however, and my quest for a fresh banana treat is what delivered unto me this amazing recipe. Manna from heaven. Mananas from heaven, maybe, snickersnicker.
This all started with the Great Waffle Drought. I didn’t bring my old waffle maker with me when we headed East, it was a hand-me-down on it’s last leg and I figured a new one would be easy to come by. Wrong. I kept hoping for one when Mother’s Day and such gift-giving holidays would roll around and kept not getting one, until not giving me one became a kind of running joke that everyone laughed at except me. At long last, when the dream had faded to a mere vague longing, the Old Man surprised me with a Belgian style kajigger.