love muffins of the highest expectations

My expectations are definitely on the high end when I head off to a farmers market in the dregs of winter in Seattle. Even if that winter happens to actually be on the warmer side. Take Valentine's Day for example. I'm not one for going out and spending money on gifts that have risen in price miraculously during the coming weeks until February 14, we here in this sometimes cozy basement that we call home, are strong followers of love all throughout the year. But an opportunity arose, happening to fall on Saint Valma's day, that we could not say no to. Brunch, also known as a late breakfast, with our good friends who happen to be house sitting in an ooh so plush neighbourhood on the east side. Right there on the water, with the sun shining gingerly, we ate scrumptious food, drank champagne and of course rightfully pretended that this quiet humble home in a not at all humble community, was indeed our own.

Dreaming about overflowing crates of berries and dairy farmers selling their freshly made yogurt, with cow in tow, I headed of to Ballard Market to buy my delicious goods and maybe some muesli, since I didn't organize myself earlier to make my own. Now, know this. I do realize a farmers market is the result of local farming. Which means that in the winter there is no local berry farming. Unfortunately, for my expectations, there is my world and than there is the real world. And that's all there is to it. So I decided to take another approach. The apple and pear approach. After waiting around for the 'bell to ring', only than was I allowed to buy produce, I bought my chosen bundle of apples and pears and headed off to the car. Just to put things into perspective for the moral of the story, I don't live anywhere near Ballard. I have to go over many hills and turn many corners to take the short cut. As I'm driving I decide that I really did want berries, as they are the color of sweet, sweet love. So I pulled off to a store, ran in and of course the first thing I see and certainly didn't smell, are massive, bulging strawberries. After one whiff, I'm out the door without the strawberries, or any kind of berries for that matter, in search of summer tasting love fruits. I arrived at the co-op really close to my house, where a few weeks earlier, I tasted delicious strawberries, not local by any means, but still the smell was fresh in my memory. I'm running really late by now, after a few sniffs I buy strawberries and blue berries and what I thought was vanilla yogurt from Grace Harbor Farms. I know it was mad to buy blueberries but the romance had seduced me by that stage.

Back at home I get my little fruit, yogurt and muesli, lets call 'em fools, ready. Now I am totally flabbergasted from driving around in the car all morning in search for something that I could have walked down the street to get. Or even better, settled for another version of something I could have easily made at home the night before. I had decided the to wear my pajamas, now wondering if its going to be harder to pull off if my mood has altered from awesome to, you really better enjoy these @#!* ing glasses of fruit. We arrive at our destination, pristine and waterfront, with our contribution to breakfast and a better attitude to say the least.

I'm constantly tortured when my food doesn't meet my expectations, and when you rarely follow a recipe it sometimes gets a little exhausting dealing with yourself. I've made a personal pact to just chill out when things don't go my way, which I guess could be well worth following in life in general. In the end the berries were by far not ready to be eaten, which bugs me that they were in the store, but is also my bad for not preparing myself in the first place. That morning by the water, the four of us ate egg strata with mushrooms and fennel sausage, that our friend prepared the previous night. She made it with the cubes of bread on top so when we bit into it there was crunchy munching going on. I tell you what, that strata was so good I'm going to make one of my very own and will have you the recipe somewhere in the next couple of weeks.

My berry fools were tasty, but there were elements of trickery, hence the name, such as the beautiful and perfect amount of honey i mixed into the yogurt and the crunchy almond granola. No amount of love will give mother nature the strength or the need to produce summer fruits in a grumpy old Seattle winter. If you think you can out smart her by going to the store and buying expensive containers full of them from Mexico, than you will be sadly hurt. My innocent and not uncommon theory to spend one's day of love buying only local produce, my Mrs righteousness rearing her ugly head, had backfired. We buy local for a bunch of reasons, less burning of fossil fuels is one of them. I not only drove really far out of my way for fruits I didn't use (finished the last delicious apple 15 minutes ago), spent way too much money on out of season produce and bought tasteless fruits from an entirely different country. I guess my lesson learned is, if I'm going to wake up in the middle of winter and be Mrs buy only local, I better get use to eating apples and pears.

big arms and happy bellies

I have often wondered when my first pasta making experience would be. Well actually, I wondered when I would put my fears aside and my unfortunate need to do everything right the first time, and just roll into that beautiful flow of making pasta. The flow part didn't take to long and the beautiful part was in my mouth after it was cooked. About 3 weeks ago I went off to buy a pasta maker to attach to my mix master, which I was told would be a much easier method than rolling it out with the one's that take perch at the end of your table. On that mission, the one' s that attach to your mix masters were a little out of my price range and frankly just didn't appeal to me. As you follow this blog you might come to realize that I'm quiet a romantic and the image of a small, round, Italian mama pressing a button to roll out the pasta just wasn't coming to me. So, I opted for the more labor intensive one. I love that it has 'cranny' to hold it on to your table, and a big handle to pump through that pasta dough. I guess I was feeling something maternal as the 9 month pregnant lady with mad tattoo's and a glow was demonstrating for me.

So after my hand held pasta maker sat in my car for 2 weeks, always waiting for the perfect moment to do most of everything, I summoned up the courage and welcomed it home. I'm a big believer in preparation is the key to most things and pretty much everything in the kitchen. Though this time, I had no sauce made, no flavors ready, no garlic sliced, nor did I have the freshest of Parmesan. I did have my courage though. I just walked in that door on a rainy Saturday evening, after work, so my adrenalin was still probably rushing, pulled out my flour and eggs and cracked one. With the help of the delightful Mr Jamie Oliver I found this all very comforting. I did prepare my reading of instructions and methods though, which is obviously essential.

I used my paddle and my dough hook, in random orders, trying out what would work the best. In the end I only mixed my flour and eggs enough for them to become a messy ball with bits of crumb like dough around the bottom of the bowl. I than took it out and beat the crap out of it, forming a united ball. Wrapping it very securely in glad wrap, I popped it into the fridge over night, not necessary but my dough making was too late to cook up a pasta feast and my adrenalin was subsiding.

After a night of dreaming of cooking homemade ravioli for hundreds and the wine pouring freely, I made it back to my kitchen to face this new being. After a little contact and care, I formed a nice round, smooth ball and divided it into four. I rolled it out quiet a lot, because no matter how massive my arms were going to get, this ball was not fitting through that crack. Not unlike my first attempt at knitting a scarf, my first attempt at rolling a ball of pasta turned out to look a little like the Eiffel tower. Not to worry, just fold it again and again when it's gone through and roll again. Starting from the widest to the most narrow setting, I just kept on going.

Even though there are the little metal spaghetti and fettucchine attachments, I had envisioned folding the rolled out pasta over and over, than cutting it by hand whatever width I wanted. So I did. More primitive, but than had the task of peeling apart my 4 foot long stands of fettucchine. Joke was on me. The second time I tried it I still did it by hand but this time i cut it in half before i folded. Looking at my dried pasta, waiting for me to give it life, I still wondered at that stage how on earth I could possibly make amazing fresh pasta. All this time of loving food, waking in the morning to be thinking about what I could bake today and cook tonight for dinner, and I've never made homemade pasta? Why, you ask. The answer is simple. Fear. All this time I've been to concerned about maybe making a mistake.

Well to bad for fear, because i dropped those four foot long pasta's into that boiling water and ate like they did hundreds of years ago. Except for the absence of homemade pasta sauce, which I'll dedicate for another time. Tonight we ate our pasta, round one, with some Parmesan I found stashed in the freezer for emergency's like these. Our second helping was of three gloriously large and mishapped ravioli's. The filling? Roasted peppers(capsicums) and goats cheese. They were special little ravioli's and we gave them lots of attention for about two minutes before we devoured them. The third and final helping of pasta that night was going to be some shorter fettacchine, at two feet long, with some of the roasted peppers and leftover pasta sauce from the fridge.

Just moanful.

could i please have some lamb with that

Today is raining so much that I have locked myself not only indoos, but into the quuiet, snug space of our office , which is now our bedroom, a story for another time. The day started out a little blar, now that I think about it. I was driving in my dream, some small, beat up old heap of car, when I could hear the engine sound out this deep, low pitched sound. Turned out to be my tonsils, blocking my airway. Not unlike a tomato lying in the sun being dried, having every bit of moisture sucked out of it.

On my way to one of my favourite cooking supply store's, to buy some nice big, particular kind of roasting tray that I really didn't need, which they didn't have, I had the joy of slamming on my breaks for one of hwy 99's infamous residents crossing the road at their leisure, dodging my car and my very loud swear words. Once I get a little bit north of where I live, the real America, it doesn't take long for my eyes to start wobbling and jump back on the road and head back to my trusty kitchen. At times like that I need to step back and get my wobbles together and realise that its just the big wet city getting to me and not my dear love for the world outside.

On my arrival home, I headed straight for the onions, garlic and celery. Tonight on the menu; lamb shanks. I work at a little place, where on Friday nights I get to create delicious pub style meals. Sometimes classic, sometimes not so much. It all depends on what springs to mind on Thursday. Lamb, any style, is always a hit. Growing up, mum would save the leg of lamb for Sunday nights, with the four of us alternating the pleasure of devouring the shank in front of one and other. Mum, from what I remember, always gave up her shank, but that left my brother, dad and I to argue that it was rightfully my turn this time. I guess we should have had it more often. Thankfully, still to this day, my dad is a slaughter man, and use to bring home other treasured parts of the deliciously, grassy lamb.

The next day for school lunches, mum use to make lamb fritters. Now I don't know if you've ever had these made for you, or if they were a humble way to enjoy our lamb left overs, rather than having the same thing the next night, but the flavor of those light, crunchy fritters still linger in my mind. I must say, I haven't had them since i was a kid, so now seems about the right time to whip some up.

I should say now that I'm not a big fan of recipes, I'm just not a baker at heart. The joy of grabbing ingredients and experimenting just comes more natural to me. Though saying that, I will make a conscious effort to write down and explain clearly and simply from now and always when giving recipes on my lovely blog. I mean really, it will only benefit all of us in the long run. I definitely need to learn to be told what to do just a little more, even if it is from a recipe book or my trial and effort.

Fritters are such fun and limitless morsels. The world is your fritter really. I like to keep it simple though, with a few different ingredients and a nice clean flavor. You can make them bite size with a tomato relish or large with a delicious mix of herbs and greens on top. The ones I've made here have got tokens of fresh dill mixed in the greens on top which give it a blast off out of this world. O dill.

Roast Lamb Fritters with fresh Herb Salad

Fritter Batter

3 cups plain flour

1 Tbls baking powder

2 3/4 cups milk

3 eggs

Lamb mix

2 cups chunkier diced lamb

2 tomatoes

half an onion

good handful flat leaf parsley

salt and pepper

Sift your flour and baking powder in big bowl. In a separate bowl, beat your eggs than add your milk. Make a well in your flour than gradually whisk in your milk mix. Throw a towel under your bowl cause right about now it's probably spinning all over the place, along with your mix. Make sure you incorporate all the mix, resulting in a beautiful smooth and thick batter.

Next, dice your lamb, tomatoes and onions. There is really no rule of how much you need to add. It's up to you since its all about what flavors you prefer, and of course what you have left over, since that is the inspiration of this dish. Chop your parsley a bit finer than rough, than toss all your ingredients together. Add your salt and pepper. (Cook up a practice fritter first to see how much salt and pepper you want to use. I like a good amount). Pour your lamb mix into your batter than stir to incorporate. Grab a skillet or whatever pan you have going. I like to spray a bit of oil since there is no need to have the fritters frying deep in oil. Turn you temperature to medium and let your pan of choice heat up good. Using a ladle, pour a nice amount onto the pan. Make sure your fritters have a nice even distribution of ingredients.Flip when bubbling, a couple minutes or so. Around the same time for other side.

When you have how many you want, plate them up then grab a small handful of your herb salad and place on top of your fritter. Drizzle what dressing you like. Here I use a simple balsamic vinaigrette I keep made up in the fridge. Please make your own dressings.

This recipe makes quiet a lot, so be ready to snack on fritters for the next day or so. They are fun to wrap up and take them with you to eat on the road also. Adventure food in style.

Thanks mum.

should i wear a frock?

There's a new little gem on the shores of West Seattle, that's all i'm telling, that was waiting with open arms for us on Saturday night. My husband, suprising me, something he's great at and i'm not very great at, gave me a little piece of heaven in the delicious form of food.

You see, up until a week ago, this little beauty was under drastic new change. Through many hours of blood, sweat and tears, hopefully less blood and more sweat, became a very family run and intimate place to just sit, smile and smell, smell, smell. O gosh, the smell of passing seared sea scallops were so oceanic that they took me back to the first time they were made for me. It was really difficult not to just walk on over to other tables, sampling and moaning here and there, moving on once satisfied.

Tonight though, it was all about the pizza. The kind of pizza that you're going to go straight for the crust. Inviting, feather weight, dusted with burn, puffy, crispy and flavour country crust. The star of the pizza show.

For me, it is hard to have a pizza without the single most marvelous ingredient, mushrooms. The mushrooms tonight were yellow foot mushrooms. What a wispy name. Adjusting my already exploding taste buds, I sprinkled delicate boulders of sea salt and dried chili, too much, but I love for my mouth to burn so much that it's dripping with saliva.

After all this hob-wash of babbling, I forgot to even mention the homemade pita and the smokey, most eggplanty baba ganoush I've experienced in years. How could such simplicity slip my mind.

In the end, a place can only deliver so much great food, or wine, or a view with dazzling lights. Its the ghosts that are visiting that make it your experience. Your memories and your now, coming together to create that explosive flavor in your mouth. When i see the mother or the grandmother, sisters and cousins, uncles and brothers, rushing around greeting people, arguing in the back, giggling about who such and such just walked in with, that's when I know that the food will taste memorable. A journey has been made in your honor. These people, these searchers, have come to where you are, to open a door; to open an umbrella; to pull a cart, for you to open your mouth, close your eyes and just surrender to their magic.

carrots love bathrooms

Hidden in my bathroom, with a must needed grow light here in the Pacific Northwest, is a makeshift farm of rows and rows of carrots. Although i've been living here now for almost three years, the idea of seasons is still bewilding to me. By seasons I mean having to live with all what once were beauftiful pots and planters filled with kangaroo paw, gardenias and snow peas, now left for a dead-like slumber of twig. Knowing they they will spring to life again in about four months leaves a dibble of hope. In the mean time, I get to play with little starter farms kept snuggly inside.

I did have the opportunity to plant magic green beans and really purple beets along side the wise and witty carrot, but the idea of having crops of carrots seemed like more of a simple approach, the purest that I am. Although, my husband believes i just didn't want to label each row. That could also be possible.

In approximatly, hmmmmm, 55 days, I will be hosting a carrot supper. What could be more wonderful. All things carrots. Note that you may leave turned the color of orange, since I behaved a little seed happy while planting them. Hence, there will be many, many plump and stumpy carrots. Planting your own vegi's I know, may be a lot of work and waiting for some, but i'm still constantly amazed when those first little shoots start to show their fuzzy little lives.

It might be a little warm and sunny here today. Mild. Yes, that's the word for it. Time for my little farm to take a trip outside.

the magic of beginnings

I'm just going to squeeze on in here and let you all know im finally here for the journey. To you, thankful reader, I'd like to invite you to enjoy the ride with me.


My name is Melinda and this is my new little blog, something kept hidden. Im very excited, to say the least, and if you asked my husband he would probably tell you it was well past the used by date of me starting.


When one starts one of these little suckers, the information overload is at it's peak, ready to erupt like an egg in a microwave. So telling you a little bit about this is going to be a fine start. You should probably know first off the bat, that i have what is known as an obsession with food and the likes. I sometimes try not to think about recipes and the next dish im going to plate up while i'm lying in bed, as a result of restlessness and insomnia. Okay, maybe it's not all that bad, though i have stopped bringing cooking magazines to bed.

As for travelling? How i've missed being in my wee yellow van, on the road, sleeping under what two trees looked like they could hold the most secure hammock. Might I add that these adventures were at many locations all over that big island south of the equater. Yep, thats right, Australia. Where home will always be.