Dirt for me, please!

Sitting in the sunshine in my back yard, I close my eyes and listen to the wind chimes on the porch as they play a sweet tune, while the breeze rustles its way through the treetops and the neighborhood birds cheerfully belt out their songs of love. Fairly warm, it is around 64 degrees on this 12th day of April, 2016. I open my eyes, and look down at my feet as I shuffle them in the earth before me. Something sparkles and flashes around the edges of them as the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds – minerals of some kind, I think, and I smile. Minerals, good. Dirt, good. Sunshine, good. All concepts I had understood either as a child, or from reading one of the multitudes of books on the subject of health I’d devoured over the last 30 years, but somehow had deemed unimportant enough to embrace in my daily life.

Now, here I sit, the memory of last night’s agony from the latest allergic reaction still somewhat fresh, but fading now as the healing elements of sunlight, dappled shadows and birdsong surround and soothe me, bathing me with their healing embrace.

I breathe in deeply and sigh, letting out all the pent up fear, sadness, frustration, and hurt brought on by so many years of ill health. It is spring now. The perfect time to shed the terrible cloak of sickness I’ve worn for way too many years. Time to let go the death grip of that garment that I have allowed to both define me and enslave me. But, who AM I without those things? I tremble for a moment, afraid to let go those habits, thoughts, ways, foods, hobbies, and passions that have shaped the avatar I present to the world. Raised on gumbo, Po-boys, strong coffee, fried food, and with an eat, drink and be merry attitude summed up by the classic Cajun battle cry “Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler!” (Let the good times roll!), I wonder how I will ever enjoy my life without them. Or how I will walk away for any length of time from my art - that joyful, frustrating, colorful, all absorbing passion of mine that is rife with chemicals, and off gassing paints. Deep sigh again. Look, I tell myself. Most of this will only be temporary. Do what you need to do to get well – eat bone broth, take probiotics, follow the Eat Dirt program for leaky gut, then maybe you can enjoy at least some of those things again someday. (Life without Brie and Brioche is hard to imagine, so please, God, please, help me find a way to let those back in at least once a year.)

But what choice do I have? To choose Brie and Brioche and all those other things that are poisoning me at present, is to choose death. I have known for some time as my health has spiraled downward, that it was just going to go from bad to worse if something didn’t change. So for now, I do have a choice. Do I want to wait until I can no longer take care of myself, or make decisions for myself before I “choose”? Uh, NO…. I don’t.

So here I stand before the proverbial fork in the road – which one do I take? The one, a heavily travelled, petroleum-based, drug-laden, blacktop road with shiny yellow lines, or the other, an unassuming little dirt two-track, barely used now since the arrival of the shiny new highway. Just a hint of a road, barely wide enough for two to pass, whose edges blur into the wildflower fields to its right, and a sparkling, stream on its left. It’s a no-brainer for me. I’ll take the road less travelled, and that, I am sure, will make all the difference in my world. Dirt for me, please!

You say (Sweet) Potato, I say Yams! Easy Baked Yams Recipe (Dairy Free, Gluten Free, Nightshade free!)

Seriously, This recipe only require yams/sweet potatoes, salt and olive oil!!!


Okay, before we get into the recipe, I have to clear something up. Is it a yam or a sweet potato?
I googled it before posting this recipe and the Huffington Post has this to say about the subject:

"Before you reach for the candied yams this Thanksgiving, there's something you need to know. They're not actually yams! All this time, many Americans have been making the mistake of calling sweet potatoes "yams." But there's actually a difference. It turns out sweet potatoes and yams are not even related. They are two different species of root vegetable with very different backgrounds and uses.

So why the confusion? The U.S. government has perpetuated the error of labeling sweet potatoes "yams." In most cases sweet potatoes are labeled with both terms, which just adds to the confusion. Since there are two types of sweet potatoes, one with creamy white flesh and one with orange, the USDA labels the orange-fleshed ones "yams" to distinguish them from the paler variety. Ok, so that sort of makes sense. But why call the orange-fleshed ones "yams" in the first place? So to understand the difference between yams and sweet potatoes, we have to dig a little deeper (tuber pun intended).

Sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas) come in two main varieties here in the States. One has a golden skin with creamy white flesh and a crumbly texture. The other has a copper skin with an orange flesh that is sweet and soft. All sweet potato varieties generally have the same shape and size -- they are tapered at the ends and much smaller than the aforementioned yams.

Americans have been calling the orange-fleshed variety of sweet potatoes "yams" since colonial times when Africans saw familiarities in them to the tuberous variety. The USDA decided to label them as "yams" to differentiate the two varieties. Both varieties of sweet potato, including "yams" can be widely found in supermarket.

Yams (family Dioscoreaceae) are native to Africa and Asia and other tropical regions. Yams are starchy tubers that have an almost black bark-like skin and white, purple or reddish flesh and come in many varieties. The tubers can be as small as regular potatoes or grow upwards of five feet long.

The word yam comes from an African word, which means "to eat." The yam holds great importance as a foodstuff because it keeps for a long time in storage and is very valuable during the wet season, when food is scarce. For eating, yams are typically peeled, boiled and mashed or dried and ground into a powder that can be cooked into a porridge. Yams can be found in international markets, such as those that specialize in Caribbean foods."

 

Baked Sweet Potatoes/YAMS!!!

(Adapted from America's Test Kitchen - The New Best Recipe)

Note: This recipe is for the moist, orange-fleshed varieties of sweet potatoes that generally show up in supermarkets. You can cook up to 6 potatoes at one time without altering the cooking time. Buying potatoes of the same size is a good idea because it standarizes cooking time. As with regular baked potatoes, we find it best to open the baked sweet potatoes as wide as possible so that steam can quickly escape; this ensures that the flesh is fluffy rather than dense.

4 small sweet potatoes (about 2 lbs), scrubbed and lightly pricked with a fork

2 Tablespoons vegetable or olive oil

Salt

1. Adjust an oven rack to the center position and heat the oven to  400 degrees. Rub the potatoes with the oil, then arrange them on a baking sheet as far apart as possible.

2. Bake until a knife tip slips easily into the center of a potato, 40 to 50 minutes. Remove the sweet potatoes from the oven and pierce them with a fork to create a dotted X on the top of each potato. Press in at the ends of each sweet potato to push the flesh up and out. Season with salt and serve immediately.

 

 

Pan Seared Salmon (from America's Test Kitchen, The New Best Recipe)

Olive Oil, Salt, and Peppa! Whodathunkit?!!!

It's been almost a year since I broke up with butter and any other such foods  so decadently delicious. Long gone are the reduction sauces laced with vermouth or sherry, with the obligatory 1/2 stick of butter making any forkful of food melt in your mouth.  Gone too, are the luscious mounds of handmade, triple creme artisanal cheeses I used to slather all over great big chunks of freshly baked bread. They have been replaced with their more staid cousins like ghee (think butter, without its gooey, romantic side) and gluten free bread (a pitiful, ersatz version that tastes nothing like the lusty french loaves I used to devour.)

I don't think I will ever really stop grieving over lost loves, but I have learned to live without them for the time being. Olive oil, salt and pepper, believe it or not, can make alot of foods taste amazingly good.  Below is a dish I found in America's Test Kitchen, The New Best Recipe - my go to cookbook.

P.S. Don't let the instructions scare you. Just read them through and then go for it. Every time you make this dish you will get better and better at judging when the fish is done to your liking. :0)

Cooks Illustrated Pan Seared Salmon

 

Serves 4

 

Note: With the addition of the fish fillets, the pan temperature drops. Compensate for the heat loss by keeping the heat on high for 30 seconds after adding the fillets to the pan. If cooking 2 or 3 fillets instead of the full recipe of 4, use a 10 inch skillet and medium-high heat for both preheating the pan and cooking the salmon. A splatter screen helps reduce the mess of pan-searing. Serve salmon with a fresh salsa or lemon or lime wedges.

 

 

4 center-cut salmon fillets, 1 1/4 inches thick (about 6 ounces each) pinbones removed

Salt and ground black pepper

1 tsp canola or vegetable oil

 

1. Heat a 12-inch heavy-bottomed skillet over high heat for 3 minutes. Sprinkle the salmon with salt and pepper to taste.

 

2. Add the oil to the pan and swirl to coat the bottom. When the oil shimmers (but does not smoke), add the fillets skin-side down and cook, without moving, until the pan regains lost heat, about 30 seconds. Reduce the heat to medium-high; continue to cook until the skin side is well browned and the bottom half of the fillets turn opaque, 4 1/2  minutes. Turn the fillets and cook, without moving them, until they are no longer translucent on the exterior and are firm, but not hard, when gently squeezed: 3 minutes for medium-rare and 3 1/2 minutes for medium. Remove the fillets from the pan to a platter and let stand for 1 minute. Pat the fillets with paper towels to absorb excess fat, if desired. Serve immediately.

 

Salmon on the fly....not to be confused with the Salmon fly hatch happening as we speak!

Yes, I know, I should be out fishing right now. The Salmon fly hatch is going down as we speak, but here I am sitting in front of my computer screen writing about a Salmon recipe. Call me crazy, but it is just too hot to be outside right now. (This from a Cajun from Southwest Louisiana.) Where DID all this heat come from anyway? Aren't we up north, within 400 miles of the Canadian border? Did I leave Southwest Louisiana just to swelter in Southwest Montana summers? Apparently so. ANYWAYS, instead of hitting the salmon fly hatch, I've decided this weekend to park myself in front of a fan and write about cooking Salmon. Works for me.

But before I do that, my earnest, devoted fans require a story - entertainment before eats. So...since trout are part of the salmonidae family, I will bend the rules just a little and tell a trout story before I give you my Salmon recipe.

Setting: Yellowstone National Park, May 15, 2013 (Opening day for fishing the Park)
Main Characters: One blue-eyed cajun, her husband, Jim (a transplant from Chicago)
Ancillary Characters:
       Flyshop guy:  The heretofore nameless Bozeman fly shop guy who sold me the wrong kind of leaders
       Guardian Angel: Angelic figure disguised as a portly flyfisherman

It's 3:28 pm, and 68 degrees as we leave the campground. My hubby pilots the Tundra as I give the navigation details from a cocktail napkin given to me by a guy at Alworks in Bozeman who had lived, worked and fished YNP for 16 years. It says to turn onto Firehole Drive and go until you first see the river....(sorry, that's all you get for now...gotta know and like you alot to tell you EXACTLY where we went.)

So we find our sweet spot on the Firehole and parked the truck in some shade. Jim took the dogs to the river to splash and play while I was getting geared up and dressed up to hit the river. Opening DAY! Woohoo! It's opening day for fishing Yellowstone National Park, and here I am, in the right spot at the right time with the right flies (courtesy of  my contact from Aleworks) and the right gear. Or so I thought.

Hadn't fished anywhere for the last 2 years, (long story, too boring...) so I'd stopped at one of the local flyshops (which shall remain nameless) to get some new leaders. "I need LOOPED leaders," I told the fresh-faced flyshop guy. "Yes, here you go," said FRESH-FACED-FLY-SHOP-GUY as he handed me a packet of leaders.

Really, I should blame myself for not actually LOOKING at the package. I'd trusted this guy with one of the most sacred things to a flyfisherman - the tools I'd need to be successful on the river. To cut him some slack, he did help me pick out the right flies - never mind I have 400 or so in my flyboxes, I can never remember which ones are which in crunch time, and didn't have time to spend hours poring over my flyboxes and flies guidebook to find the right ones, so I did what any flyfisherman with a $1,000 of flies inventory would do - I bought more. What if I got all the way to Yellowstone Park and all the way to the right river and all the way to the right spot on the river in Yellowstone and didn't have the right flies? Or worse,  ENOUGH of the right flies???!!! So, after spending $30 on flies I probably had more than enough of, and $20 in the correct leaders (OR SO I THOUGHT), I headed out on my first fishing trip of the season.

Cut to the Firehole River when I realized that FRESH-FACED FLYSHOP GUY sold me the wrong blankety-blank leaders!!!! I was not, pun intended, a happy camper (or flyfisherman). What the hell am I going to do now???!!!!

My husband, ever cool, calm and collected unless the Chicago Bears were losing, was just walking up to the truck after taking the dogs for a dip in the river. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"FRESH-FACED-FLYSHOP GUY SOLD ME THE WRONG LEADERS!!!"

He looked at me and saw I was about to melt down. "Well, let's see, what about using a leader off one of the other rods?"

We'd brought all four rods just in case something happened and we needed a back up. (Last year we were in YNP about to go fishing and he'd accidentally closed the truck door on both our rods, severing not only both rods,(One of which was my B2X Winston 5 weight prized possession)  but also any chance of going fishing in the Park that weekend.) This time we'd brought all the rods, hence there was potentially at least 3 more chances of finding a decent leader to use.

One by one, each rod produced a leader shorter and more useless than the last. Nada. I sighed heavily and looked at my husband helplessly. "Oh well, at least this will make for another interesting story for my blog," I said weakly, trying to find a silver lining.

My man, never willing to say die, always able to figure out some way to fix things, said, "Well, what is wrong with the leaders you just bought?"

"They don't have a loop on them!!!"
I could see his patience bob for a moment, but rise again, still buoyant. "Can't you tie them on yourself?" He offered hopefully.

I sighed heavily. "I suppose." Years ago, while working at the Orvis outlet in Williamsburg, Virginia, I'd actually won contests with the other flyfishing addicts working there for a discount when we'd compete to see who could tie a perfect loop the fastest. It was a way to pass the time when things were slow and we'd already straightened all the merchandise 3 times over and no customers had graced the doorway of our establishment for at least a couple of hours. Other meaningful chores in slow times involved practicing our casting on the grass lawn in front of the store and holding impromptu fly tying lessons on the vise in the back of the store. But I digress. It had been 10 years since I'd tied a perfection loop, since in the meantime, I'd relied on already looped leaders instead of practicing my knots all winter like any other self-respecting flyfisher would.

Hoping that no one would see this embarrasing display of incompetence, I fished around in my fly vest pockets for the laminated card I carried (just in case) that gave basic instructions on how to tie the important knots. 20 minutes later, neither I nor my husband could figure out the illustrated drawings to come up with a satisfactory perfection loop. Meanwhile, as I am hunched over this stupid loopless leader, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Firehole leaping and dancing, sparkling and babbling in the waning afternoon light. For a moment, I despaired of ever wetting a line on that fine, opening day of fishing in Yellowstone National Park.

Just then, a silvery SUV pulls up right behind us. Out steps an angel, disguised as a portly gentleman in his 60's, dressed in waders with a powder-blue, quick drying flyfishing shirt. Fly rod in hand, he nods politely, turns and strides purposefully towards the river.

"Hey!" I yelled, desperation making me even bold enough to bother an angler (or angel, whatever) on his way to enjoy a slice of heaven on the river.
"Do you know how to tie a perfection loop knot?" Stupid question, of course he knows how to tie a perfection loop knot, Diane. He looks like he came out of the womb knowing how to tie a perfection loop knot.

He looked back at me and cracked a smile (or was it a grimace?) and strode over to us. Portly as he was, this guy/angel in waders and a powder-blue, quick-drying flyfishing shirt didn't waste time, which by the way was wasting away as I sat there wishing I could trade my kingdom (small as it was) for a looped leader.

"I can't remember how to tie it," I added with more than a little embarrassment.
He looked at me without comment or expression, grabbed the tag end of the line, whipped out a perfect perfection loop knot in seconds, and handed it back to me.

"If you use this knot to tie on your fly, it will give your fly a little action," he added.
I nodded dumbly. I think I remembered to thank him as he strode away towards the river.
"Gonna say hi to the fish," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared as suddenly as he'd come.

My angel/angler friend had saved the day. Slightly dazed by the miracle I had just seen, I made my way to the river, enchanted and dazzled with its beauty and power. I did manage to fish for an hour or two before clouds rolled in and the wind picked up, making it hard to cast without it ending up in my face. And I did manage to catch three little debutantes - sparkling little cuties that didn't know any better than to stay out of trouble.

Satisfied that I'd had an opportunity to say hello to the river and a couple of trout, I climbed out of the river and hugged my husband.

"Thanks so much for all your help, honey! What a great day on the river!"

We smiled at each other, climbed into the truck and headed back to the Madison campground. Later that day we'd get to visit with other wild creatures of Yellowstone, but that is another story altogether.

Oh, yeah, I owe you guys a Salmon recipe. Soon. Very soon.



 

Ghee Recipe from Cooks Illustrated

The clarified butter known as ghee is made by slowly simmering butter until all of its moisture has evaporated and its milk solids begin to brown. These solids are then strained out, and the remaining pure butterfat has a nutty flavor and aroma and an ultrahigh smoke point (485 degrees). It can be used as a slightly richer, more buttery substitute in any recipe that calls for clarified butter and can even be used for high-heat applications-such as frying and making popcorn - in which regular butter (with a smoke point of 250 or 300 degrees) would burn. Another benefit: Its pure state means that unlike regular butter or simple clarified butter (which contains water that contributes to rancidity), it doesn't have to be refrigerated, and it will keep for at least three months. Traditionally made ghee is made on the stovetop, but we like this hands-off oven method.

Place 1 to 2 pounds unsalted butter in Dutch oven and cook, uncovered on lower-middle rack of 250 degree oven for 2 to 3 hours, or until all water evaporates and solids are golden brown.

Let cool slightly and strain ghee through fine-mesh sieve lined with cheesecloth. Pour into clean glass jar, let cool completely, and seal. Ghee can be kept, sealed in a cool, dark place for up to 3 months or refrigerated for up to 1 year.

Got Ghee?

If you gotta have butter, then let me introduce you to my new beau. Just when I thought all was lost, and I would have to learn to live without love - I mean butter, I was introduced to ghee. Ghee? What is that? Isn't that some kind of odd food like tofu or falafel? (Bear with me here - I'm a Cajun from Lafayette, Louisiana. Certainly your definition of odd will be different than mine. I do after all, eat mudbugs.)

Now where was I? Oh yeah, Ghee. Conjures up for me images of dirty, dusty streets in India with slender, robed people in ramshackle street markets offering up plates of unrecognizable, unpronounceable (for me) foods with background music provided by chattering mobs of street children and the wailing of unseen devotees behind temple walls.  (The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel anyone?)

At first, I wasn't convinced about this new beau named Ghee. (No, not the gorgeous French guy on Dancing with the Stars. The butter, Ghee. Are you paying attention at all?) ANYWAYS....where was I? Oh, yeah. Ghee. Not sure about him (I mean it) yet. Will it be anywhere close to the original? Will it be a let down like Cinnamon Raisin Gluten Free Bread? At almost $6 for a 7.5 oz jar I wanted to make sure I wasn't making a committment that was not going to work out.

Then I had an epiphany. (No, that is not a new brand of dairy free ice cream.) I was on the phone with my sister living in South Carolina, having a conversation about what else, food.

"Ghee"...I said. "I'm just not sure."

"Isn't it clarified butta?" Said Sista.

(Oops. Sorry. Every time I get on the phone with my siblings I start taking on a southern/Cajun drawl.)

"Yeah, I guess it is," I replied.

"Well then, isn't that the same butter used to dip lobster in?"

"Why, yes, it is!" It's LOBSTA BUTTA!!!!!

HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!!HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HALLELUJAH!!!!!HALLE........LUJAH!!!!!!

Now THAT is a Ghee I can love! Now THAT conjures up images I can relate to!

From the day I turned old enough to style my hair and paint my nails, as a young southern belle, I was wooed by young southern gentlemen in the traditional way - dinner and candlelight at a dark, romantic cafe or restaurant resplendent with white linen tablecloths, fine china and silverware, with the obligatory single rose stem in a cut crystal vase.

Dinner was usually steak or lobster or both, served with either a buttery wine reduction sauce or well, just butter. But not just any kind of butter. LOBSTA BUTTA. Somehow, in that dimly lit restaurant, it tasted even better than the butta at home I typically slathered all over a huge hunk of French bread just before diving into a steaming bowl of Chicken Gumbo.

IT'S LOBSTA BUTTA. Do you hear me? LOBSTA BUTTA. It's going to be okay, honey chile. Life is still worth living after all....
 

It's a Brave New World

Went to the Co-op today. Gazed longingly at the Woolwich Goat's Milk Brie in the round wooden box, remembering my hedonistic past - simple, indulgent meals with said Brie playing the leading role, accompanied by a fresh loaf of French bread, and a split of my favorite champagne.

Unfortunately for me, those days are over - at least for awhile. A month? 6 months? A year? Don't know how long. Don't want to know how long it will be before I can dig my teeth into a chunk of triple creme heaven and feel the crunch of golden crust between my teeth while I pause a moment to let the flavors meld together before washing it down with a glass of Veuve Cliquot. Am I destined now to be in some kind of foodie rehab? Did I just join some kind of gustatory nunnery? What in the hell am I going to eat now? No cheese? No bread? NO BUTTER!!!!??

After all those years of looking down on people who ate forbidden foods after having a triple by-pass or  judging the diabetic guiltily wolfing down a huge slice of Death by Chocolate cake, I finally understand. Seems simple to the outsider to say, well, what's the big deal? If you'll live a longer, better life by changing your diet, why wouldn't you? What is so hard about it? Would you RATHER another episode of having your chest cracked open? Why are you being such a wimp about it?

Now it seems, I am in their shoes. Now I get it. It IS a big deal to change your diet so dramatically. It is NO fun to go to a party and watch everyone else eating and drinking while you have to find a way to politely turn down all the offerings your host or hostess worked so hard to prepare. But the alternative is to be sick all the time. To have health problems that just keep getting worse and worse every year. To feel like you are in a prison because you have to be careful about everything that touches your lips or the air you breathe or the perfume on the friend you are hugging. So I went looking for answers.

After rounds of office visits to every allergist, naturopath, hydrocolon therapist, cardiologist, and every other ist you can think of, after pouring thousands of dollars into that supplement program or this miracle pill or that miracle treatment, and after 15 years of suffering from increasing health problems including multiple allergic reactions, I finally found someone who gave me some answers.

Only thing was, part of me didn't really want to hear those answers. My wellness doc looked at me and I knew what was coming. Heavy sigh. I can't remember exactly how she put it, but the gist was this: part of my health problems stemmed from food intolerances. (Not food allergies, food intolerances. Google it if you want to know more.) I'd need to give up all gluten and dairy to start with. Here's where I'd normally include an expletive or two, but I'll spare you.

Kill me now, I told my friend Becky later. Before that dark day, my definition of the 4 food groups was meat, butter, dairy and bread. Sure, I knew I should eat more veggies. I even knew I should juice dark leafy greens and eat lots of salads. But when push came to shove, more often than not, I gravitated towards fettucine alfredo, chicken swimming in vermouth sauce, or some butter/wine reduction of one kind or another,  accompanied with lots of yummy bread and some decent wine to wash it down. And don't forget dessert! Coffee icecream or pot de creme were my two favorites.

So I have two choices. I can look at this journey into a gluten free/dairy free world as a prison sentence, or I can look at it as a new adventure in learning how to create meals that are delicious and healthy without depriving my hedonistic taste buds. I choose adventure. For those of you on the same journey, I welcome your company, your recipes, tips and yes, even your gripe sessions. Tell me all about how much you miss Coldstone Creamery coffee icecream with chocolate shavings. It's okay. I will listen for awhile, then I'll send you a new recipe I've found for Coconut Chocolate Ice cream. It's really good. I swear on my Brie lovin' soul.