I made some wonderfully delicious wheat-free and vegan oatmeal raisin cookies last night. I thought that my youngest kid’s kindergarten teacher would enjoy a dozen or so of these babies — and this woman deserves them, I tell you!

This teacher has the patience of St. Francis — no doubt about that. Case in point: my daughter started junior kindergarten this fall. It was only approximately 5 weeks ago that this young lady didn’t cry (hysterically) when I left her at school. Before the watershed in her relationship with independence, I was the mom that everyone was staring at in the morning, peeling her child off, wiping tears, leaving with a heavy sadness in the belly. Each day my daughter’s teacher would take her by the hand, crouch down to her level, reassure her calmly and patiently and bring her to the classroom. My daughter has come incredibly far this academic year under this teacher’s direction — she’s reading (already!), printing, has loads of friends, and (finally!) goes to school happy! Now I’m the mom that everyone stares at because my daughter and I have a secret hand language that we use as we laugh together before the bell rings each day.  (The hand language includes using two fingers to point at one another’s eyes, as in Meet the Fockers, kiss-catching, and other made up, random stuff.)

I understand why every Mom in this town wants their children to have this teacher, and I consider our family fortunate that our daughter is in this classroom. As an educator myself, I know that sometimes our jobs seem thankless. I hope that this healthy batch of cookies (no dairy, no wheat, no eggs, no sugar — rather, agave nectar, applesauce, quinoa flour, etc.) serves as a very small representation of our gratitude for this teacher’s patience, kindness, and care.

P.S.  I must add here…  one of my daughter’s homework assignments in December was to write out what she wanted Santa to bring her.  At four years old, this is “the” list:

I saw the magnitude of the renovations with my own eyes when I dropped off a dinner for them and their brood tonight. I should have been able to imagine the chaos in which they are living at present, as my husband spent the better part of Friday over there with his buddy swinging a sledgehammer to knock out as much drywall as possible. (I’m sure that it was very therapeutic.) He explained that it was a “total demo,” though I’m a social science professor so I didn’t quite get it till I stopped by this evening.

Suffice to say, these folks needed a dinner made for them. Their fridge is in the living room and the stove, well, it was in the hallway and I don’t think there are any outlets there!

I forgot to take a picture of the homemade macaroni and cheese (comfort food extraordinaire) that I whipped up, so I snapped a pic of it all wrapped up in wax paper (no plastic touches my food!). Maggie the Magic Dog was my delivery companion and copilot on the 1km journey over to the construction site.

Here’s hoping for less dust and more laughs in the future for these folks! They had better not even think of moving this town after all this… The kids live in each others’ back pockets and these fine folks get food deliveries! You kids are staying put till all of our offspring are in university (at least)!

These are some gosh darn awesome quinoa muffins! I made them for one gosh darn awesome woman that I know and like… and see far too infrequently.

We first met through our kids. I knew that she was awesome when she was the only other person I’d met in this town who not only knew what quinoa was but also ate it regularly! Furthermore, we share an affinity for good tea (the real thing, not the supermarket stuff). We both read voraciously, and neither of us sleeps very much. If all that wasn’t enough, we both have curly hair and share a loathing for humid days. This woman understands me, I say!

I’ve got the message through a few channels that we are destined to be friends… We’ve ended up together at the soccer field, the playground, and also a variety of non-kid-related social gatherings. There’s destiny knocking at our doors, so I hope that this homemade delivery tells her that I’ve heard the message loud and clear.

These quinoa muffins are made with spelt flour, loads of freshly-cooked quinoa, maple syrup (no sugar) applesauce (no oil!) and egg replacer. Only the best for this good friend. I will deliver them while it’s still dark in the morning so that she’ll have time to throw a few in the kids’ lunches. It is my sincere hope that she is then able to settle in with a few of these and a nice cuppa tea after everyone is away for the day.

I spend a lot of time teaching. And anyone who has been part of my life for the last 24 hours knows that I will be doing even more of it for the next month or so!

My students know how incredibly important they are to me. I know that I was put on this earth to be in education, and I get incredible rewards from the laughs and challenges that I have with my undergraduate students. When I leave the university, I can be found hanging with my kids (and I kinda like to think that I teach them too). The kids and I are on a bird kick recently, having made bird feeders filled with suet cakes with Grampa last week.

There are a couple of hours every week during which I leave my teaching mode and become a student. I have been practicing yoga with my teacher for more than four years now. What I find truly outstanding is that every time I walk into that studio, I learn something new. She’s never taught the same class twice. I might learn a new way to set up for pigeon pose, or a different way of aligning myself for triangle. Whenever I leave class and drive myself home, I always feel glad that I took the time to get myself to the studio, practice intently and mindfully, and to really be there.

I made my teacher and her family a big pot of vegan chili. I know that she and her lovely husband (who showed me that chivalry is indeed very much alive when he changed a tire for me once) are super badass busy right now, so I hope this meal comes in handy for them and their 3 kids.

Namaste, my friends. The light in me bows to the light in you.

I can never really remember not being in school (I realize that’s a double negative, though I just couldn’t say it any other way). One of my earliest memories is sitting in a quiet and cozy reading loft in a kindergarten class. In my memory, the loft was high off the floor, and I loved the secrecy of choosing my own book and reading it in “private,” way above the hustle and bustle of the classroom. I can easily recall the slide and ladder leading up to the loft, and even the gingham curtains that covered the windows, making it feel like a lovely indoor treehouse. The kindergarten class was always full of activity, with students making their own choices throughout much of the day, including reading, art, dramatic play, climbing, singing or dancing. I just loved going to this class, being part of the activity, and enjoyed experiencing something new each day.

Interestingly, this was not my kindergarten class. It was my Dad’s. He was a kindergarten teacher, and often took me along to participate with his group of students. I guess it could be said that I’ve been in school for as long as I can remember. I still go “back to school” in September in my capacity as a university professor. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t do anything else. When the shadows lengthen and the crickets tweet even during the day, I get a little flutter, knowing that it’s time to go back to school.

When I became an undergraduate student, I felt as if I had landed somewhere that I was really meant to be (at least in the academic forum). Where else could you learn (really learn!), socialize, eat, and hang out with friends all in the same place?! While I learned a great deal academically as an undergraduate, my education was not simply intellectual. I came from a public high school in a blue-collar town. I had a thick Boston accent. While the other women wore pink Polo button-downs and leather top-siders, I still had poofy 80’s hair. I was completely unprepared for the social reality of a liberal arts college in New England. I had a lot of learning to do.

What I remember most about those years, though, was the faculty at the universities that I attended. The profs, especially at Wheaton, were creative, fun, and challenged me like no one else before. My undergraduate thesis supervisor and I once drank a 6-pack of beer that we put outside the window on a cold January day. I went to lunch with my faculty members, and even had dinner their homes, met their spouses, and drank their wine. I knew that I wanted to be a professor, travel around the world and have exotic memorabilia from faraway places. I remember Dean Sue Alexander, in particular, always had a smile on her face, was a wonderful feminist mentor, and had a houseful of amazing stuff from all over the planet hanging on her walls. Students stopped by for coffee. Yes. That was what I wanted.

Now, I have an ivy-league doctoral degree, a house, a marriage, 2 kids, and a cute little dog. I’ve got artifacts from far corners of the earth that I have visited. I do wildly interesting research. I teach lively, generous, hardworking students. I am, as one of my students is fond of saying, “Livin’ the dream!”

So, what about the food, then?! Over this semester, my students have acknowledged and encouraged my love of good food. One gave me soup (twice!). Another brought me homemade tabbouleh that her Mom made. One woman gave me a baggie full of coconut sap (yum!). Still another gave me her own ration of vegan peach crumble right from her own lunch pail. One sweet young woman gave me the very first thing she ever cooked herself (pasta with tofu and broccoli). And just a few days ago, I was at my desk, revising a paper for publication. I was tired. A lovely young woman came in delivering a vegan cupcake from the café down the street. How did I get so lucky? The generosity, creativity, and genuine nature of my students truly moves me.

Tonight I made a big batch of leek, chickpea and potato soup. I pulled out 6 bpa-free Ziploc containers and filled them up. Tomorrow, those students who gave me their food-related thoughtfulness will have their thoughtfulness reciprocated by having a homemade lunch on me.  This food says thank you — not only for your generosity in sharing your food, but also for letting me live my dream of being an educator.  Enjoy!

I hadn’t seen him cry since he was about 8 years old. Not until the storm came and ravaged the city that he loves.

This was the boy who used to practice waking up on Christmas morning with me, ride skateboards down the neighborhood hills in Massachusetts, and who upset me so much that once, as a child, I dumped a whole bowl of cereal right over his head.

Then he was a man, and he was standing in my Canadian kitchen, taking shelter from the storm. Literally.

Just as I was moving to Toronto in 2000, Dan bought a 1976 yellow Volkswagen bus, born the same years as he, and drove down and over the US. He stopped and left Georgia (too racist), Nevada (Burning Man Festival was too fun to stay very long), and California (just too fancy). New Orleans was the place for this tall, dark and handsome double major in mathematics and music, who in my opinion, had actually triple majored in fun, making (and keeping) friends, and livin’ the good life. I often think that I should have done the same.

When the storm – most New Orleanians don’t even give it any respect by calling it by its meterological name – hit in 2005, Dan left for Texas, thinking that it was another hyped up network news story. Five months later, he was still on Cape Cod with our parents, not having been allowed back to his Ward. He checked GoogleEarth; his powder blue truck had floated away. His tools and belongings were most certainly damaged or looted. “I’m goin’ back, dude,” he repeated. “I’m goin’ back.”

There was a water line at five feet when he got back to his home on St. Roch. “I’m stayin’ here,” he repeated when he called upon his arrival in The Big Easy. “I’m stayin’ here and building this city back up.”

Sure enough, he’s renovated not only his own home, but also dozens others. Many of his friends returned. Some did not. Some of his neighbours returned. Many did not. He has done so much structural (both physical and social) work on his neighbourhood that when I was visiting a few months ago, the neighbourhood characters (it’s the only way I can describe them with brevity!) got out of their cars and homes when Dan walked down the road with a female version of himself at his side. I was an instant friend, and received countless hugs and immediate respect as “Dan’s little big sister.” The same happened as we passed bars and clubs at all hours of the day and night. The entire time that I spent with Dan and his lovely lady Lily, we ate until our jeans split and laughed until we cried.

It’s fitting that tomorrow is Mardi Gras, and it is – perfectly – Dan’s birthday. To celebrate the two, and to teach his message of perseverance, I made two massively delicious King Cakes. Tomorrow, I will visit my daughers’ school and tell the story of Uncle Dan and his flooded house, the floataway truck, and his dedication to rebuilding a city that he loves.

While I wish that I could deliver these cakes personally to the only human being to ever be allowed to call me “Butthead,” this project is local and I know that Dan wouldn’t have it any other way. (Plus, he’s enjoying Mardi Gras for the 12^th time in the Crescent City!) He’ll no doubt be thrilled to know that more than 20 young children will enjoy a traditional King Cake and hear his story.

I love you, Butthead. Happy Birthday!

First, they throw a darn good party. Whether it’s just us sitting around a fire in the back yard, or if it’s a retro 70′s party and I get to wear a costume that I haven’t worn still grad school and it still fits, these folks know how to get it going. (Plus, we are usually the only other neighbours invited, which makes it even better.)

Second, their kids are unbelievably wonderful. I know, I know, they’ll read this and remind me that I don’t have to live with them so I get to see them at their best. But don’t we all want to know that our kids are really great once they leave the house? There are four kids next door and every one of them is remarkably polite and fabulous with my children. Every single time their youngest comes over to our place – whether it is for 5 minutes or 5 hours – she leaves singing, “Thank you for having me over!” I also love that these people make their kids take the recycling and green bin out to the garage. Every time my offspring whine about doing anything around here, I threaten them with having to take the next-door-neighbor’s green bins out, so thanks, guys, for letting me “use” you!

This cake comes with a confession. I confessed to my neighbors in the fall, and this cake delivery is my last element in getting past a black mark in my culinary past. On Canadian Thanksgiving in October, I thought that it would be nice to make a cake for these folks. I knew that they were having company and with four kids, jobs, and it still being lawn-cutting weather, I thought I’d throw a cake in the oven and send it on by.

I made it in my grandmother’s antique bundt pan, and our house smelled divine as it baked peacefully. I took it out and once it cooled enough, I flipped it over onto a cooling rack.

It didn’t come out.

Shook again. Stuck.

Shook AGAIN. Crumbled out into a million pieces.

This was a terrible blow to my ego, which is regularly inflated with wonderful culinary concoctions. So the next day, before anyone else got up, I made another one. (And my kids get up early, so this was a real sneak. I had to do this re-do privately, lest anyone catch on to my inner breakdown over this whole cake thing.)

This time, I made the cake in a wonderfully ornate tin with lots of swirls and points on it. Why not kick it up a notch, since my first attempt failed so miserably? By the time 7am rolled around and everyone was awake, the smell was enough to wake the coyotes out back from their slumber.

Cake cooled. Turned the tin over onto a cooling rack. The “thunk” that is supposed to happen as Cake gracefully slides out of the tin didn’t happen. Shook it. Nothing.

Shook it again. Nothing.

Gave it a good whack with a wooden spoon. Cake crumbled into 2 million pieces this time. My kids looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes that say, “I’m really sorry, and this will be funny someday.”

In a state of fury and panic, iced with a layer of inadequacy, I phoned my Mom. I mean, what else do you do in a moment of weakness? She kindly asked if Cake could be put back together with icing. Umm, no.

All day I stewed over this cake and wondered what on earth I was going to do with TWO crumbled cakes (which, by the way, tasted fabulous, despite the poor presentation).

I got the brilliant (if I do say so myself) idea to travel back to the 70′s party that these folks held last summer and make a trifle. A quick stop to the supermarket for whipping cream and cookies resulted in a fabulously retro presentation. Relief. They say they loved it, and I can only hope that they were telling the truth! The trifle bowl came by quite quickly so I have little reason to question their honesty.

So, friends, here’s the cake that you were supposed to get – twice – last fall. You’re even awesome-r now and as Benjamin Zephaniah says in Neighbours, “You should feel good/ You have been chosen.” In fact, I think it’s we who are the chosen ones, as we scored when you guys moved in next door.

I may get rid of this recipe now, so enjoy!

I swear, the bay leaf really landed there… It was not a staged photo!

I made dinner tonight for an absolutely awesome family who never fail to make us laugh and feel happy. Last week, we (the parents!) went out for whisky sours on my birthday. We all closed the place and left laughing as always.

For the past month or so, I’ve been promising to have this motley crew over to our place for dinner. There’s work, skiing, hockey, blah, blah, which has got in the way. So I made this amazing lentil soup and had my husband be the meals on wheels driver. He will probably not be home for 3 hrs because he will go in and start talking ski equipment, renovations, and will likely engage in a Mill Street Coffee Porter.

I deem it particularly important to keep ties with this tribe because our 4 year old daughter and their 6 year old son are apparently betrothed. My mini-me came home one day informing me of this arrangement. I was later informed by the parents of the groom that the bride had called it off. The handsome and gifted athlete of a young man informed his mom that he knew that they would nevertheless end up a couple because, “You’re supposed to marry your best friend and we are best friends so I know we will be together.”

Here’s to that, friends. You rock!

Upon our return, we whipped up these gorgeously delicious chocolate zucchini muffins. The excited-for-life youngest and I got some Donovan Frankenreiter going on the iPod and worked together to create this surf-inspired goodness.

For the recipe, and more about how these turned out, please visit my other blog: andadirtyhotdog.wordpress.com

We are on our way to drop off a big plate of these west-coast inspired muffins now. These muffins say big thanks for a very fun day.

Surf’s up!

I know that the past week has been tough for her and her husband, so I hope that this food delivery helps out in some small way — if only to know that they are being thought about and appreciated. My communication this week – with food as the medium – says, “Thank you,” “I’m thinking about you,” “I’m sorry for your loss,” and, again, “Wow!”

These are vegan orange and blueberry muffins. I made them in a deep-dish muffin tin so they’re big and hearty. I used whole spelt flour, so the muffins did not rise much, though the taste is still delish despite the somewhat grainy texture. I like to think that texture means “healthy!” They’re sweetened with maple syrup (a bit of Canadiana!) so they’re wholesome and tasty. Slap a little marg on there and you’re good to go!