Plum Frangipane in late winter...

~dreaming of spring & summer fruit~

Crust:
1 Stick butter, well chilled and cut into 1/2" pieces

3/4 Cup all purpose flour
1/4 Cup ground almonds
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 Teaspoon baking powder
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1/4 Cup ice water


Use a food processor to mix & combine ingredients. Chill for 1 hour. Prepare pan..with olive oil spray & flour. Fill with crust mixture and press into sides.  Bake for 20minutes in a preheated 350* oven. Let cool.

Filling:
1/2 Stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/3 Cup almond meal
1/4 Cup sugar
2 Eggs
1/3 Cup all purpose flour
1 Tablespoon vanilla extract

Jam:

1/2 Cup jam (your choice of flavor). I used apricot.

 

Spread jam over cooled crust.  Pour filling over jam. Bake for 40minutes in 375* oven. 

 

Cool & serve with vanilla bean icecream.

 

 

Fantastico!

 



Phalaenopsis Orchid

Something about a beautiful flower...that can make you dream of spring.

 

 

 

Chamonix

 

 

 

Goodbye sweet Chamonix (aka: Cham, Chammy, Chammer, Chalmers, Chammy Bear, Bunny Bear, Mr. Bunny) ….my fine furry friend for 16 years.  March 12, 1998- March 6, 2014.

He was the muttly I fell in love with at the Puppy Rescue… the first pet that I called my own and a primary reason for buying the house that we still live in today. He was a little guy with a rock & roll hairstyle that made everyone smile and even ask if I had highlighted the fur on his head. (Ummm. No, I did not. J)

He was an excellent co-pilot when I was a fledgling wine-rep traveling to Steamboat… window down with the wind up his nose, blowing his ears back. I’d look at him from the driver’s seat and smile. He loved climbing on the rocks & swimming in the Yampa. He loved snow and was a true mountain dog with lots of fur. He sometimes scared people on hikes because they thought he was a bear.  He had 2 ACL knee surgeries (when he was 3 and again when he was 4), but he never let that slow him down. He went back at it and continued to climb 14ers, diligently accompany me on long-distance hikes & x-country skis, tirelessly fetch balls and eagerly swim way out for sticks in the tarn.

 

He was a great friend to Dar-Dog, father to Lucca-Dog, brother to Raleigh and wise elder statesman to the two Maine Coons: Pirmin & Tupelo, with whom he shared the house.  He was a loyal & brave protector of me, but also of Kenny & Finn.  He hung out in the yard like a proud king of his castle. He always jumped up and wagged his tail when I came home and slept by my bed at night.  He turned my many mis-adventures & subsequent couch time into quality time hanging out with him.

 

  

This last year was hard on him, but he was a determined & steadfast trooper. I can only think that he loved his life and wanted to stay with us for as long as he possibly could. He taught me the true meaning and value of always being there for the ones you love.

 

 

Love you Cham…
toujours dans mon coeur.  

Liza Jane Lived Here

Lizajane lived near the top of Lynx Mountain.  The cabin she lived in with her dad was only five miles from the small ski town where she and her friends went to school. There was no road to her house. Instead when Lizajane got off the school bus she'd start the engine of the small rope tow, grab on and make the trip up for quite a ways to get to the timber frame cabin. Only one other kid (James who lived in a small wood frame single level ranch not far from the road) got on and off the bus with her at this particular stop. In the summer they just hiked up to the cabin. But Lizajane preferred the wintertime and riding the rope tow. She had a weathered pair of leather gloves that kept her hands from getting burned by the rope and she was fairly sure no one else lived like her and her dad at the top of a mountain in a rustic cabin without a road.

Her dad built their cabin mostly by himself  though he had had the help of a few of his hearty mountain friends placing the logs and getting the logs up there in the first place. In the morning Lizajane would ski down and James would usually be there, waiting for her...sometimes with a muffin. His mother loved to bake and Lizajane was always grateful to have a yummy warm treat from her friend at the bus stop. They'd wait by the side of the road for Linda the bus driver to come around the corner, turn on her blinking redlights and stop for them.

Some winter mornings were really cold.  So cold that sometimes James' mom would warm up their family car and wait with James and Lizajane for the bus to come. James and Lizajane would sit in the back and play rock, paper, scissors until James' mom told them to settle down. Then they would just wait...looking out the car window that was frosted over.  They'd scrape the frost with their gloves and snow would fall from the windows..and they'd giggle. James was a great friend...and although she rarely saw him at school, she enjoyed their time together at the bus stop.

Living in a house without a road was an adventure for Lizajane. She loved her rugged dad. He wore simple, functional clothes, always had a beard and loved to be outside. He had a sense for the weather...just seemed to know what was coming by the way the wind was blowing...by the clouds and the temperature...he could feel it in his bones. He'd tell Lizajane about the blue sky days that they were about to have...or the big windstorm that was coming.  Lizajane was always prepared.  Most of her friends thought he was the coolest dad anyone could have...since he was the weatherman...and he was the one who announced over the airways that there was a blizzard coming and school was cancelled.

Lizajane's dad wasn't a chatty man...he really only read to Lizajane at night...but he wasn't stern either. They just had an understanding...and they lived well together, enjoying eachother's company without saying much. Her dad read a lot...and Lizajane did too. There seemed to always be a new book to read. Books lined the walls of the cabin and were stacked on the floor. Some of the characters in the books Lizajane read were her closest friends and they took her to places she had never been.

Lizajane was never lonely. When she was cold or heard a strange sound in the night...particularly when it was windy and it felt like trees were going to land on the cabin or when it was so quiet that it seemed something was sure to happen, she would climb up the ladder to her dad in the loft above. He always hugged her close so she felt safe...but she knew that she could not do this every night. There was a sense that this was her safety net...but her bed with the big comforter and with her stuffed bear was where she belonged most nights.

On winter mornings Lizajane's father would ski down to where they kept their old pick-up truck (not far from the bus stop...but in the woods and hidden) that barely ran. He'd start the motor and let it run for a good ten minutes until Pearl (the name she and her dad had given the old Chevy) was good and ready to go. Pearl was silver with a red stripe and was kind of cranky when she was cold. She'd sputter and let you know it. There really was no need to rush, and it was better for Pearl anyway...being patient would help her last until LizaJane was old enough to drive. In a few years she'd be able to help her dad get supplies and mail from town and maybe cruise around for a bit with her friends. But, for now, her dad mostly went by himself and got back before things got too busy in town...usually before Lizajane even got out of bed in the morning, If she woke up before he got back, she'd fill the heavy black kettle with water and set it on the wood burning stove and wait until the water got hot enough to make some tea. Her dad always made a roaring fire before he left...and the cabin was always warm when she got up. He'd come back not long after she got up...with bananas, oats and milk. They'd make pancakes...and pour real maple syrup over the top...with sliced bananas and peanut butter. Her father would drink coffee and Lizajane would have thick hot chocolate.

That was how most winter mornings began up on Lynx Mountain. Then Lizajane's dad would make her lunch and tuck it in her backpack. Lizajane would choose a simple dress, stuff it in her pack and get dressed in her ski clothes. She'd kiss her dad goodbye and schuss off...down the mountain to the school bus.

Powder has a way of making everything else disappear.

 

Boundary Line
January 4, 2014

The Gingerbread House...and creating Holiday memories.

 

 

 

Christmas 2013

 

 

 

I grew up in a small coastal Maine town with my three older brothers. Every Friday in the winter we'd pack up the family Suburban and head up to Sugarloaf...our mountain home 2 1/2 hours northeast. Looking back, I remember the warm, yeasty, gooey cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven that we'd indulge in on Saturday mornings before heading out to ski. And I remember the Christmas Holidays. My mother was a baker...she spent so much time in the kitchen... it is where I picture her right now...rolling the dough, twisting the cinnamon rolls, dipping them in butter, sprinkling them with cinnamon sugar and earnestly placing them in the buttered glass pan. She'd cover the cinnamon rolls with waxed paper and then set them to rise in the refrigerator over night. In the morning she'd get up before all of us. The smell of warm cinnamon wafting trough the air would be my wake-up call...time to have breakfast and then go ski.

 

At Christmas she'd make endless batches of cookies...our whole dining room table would be overflowing with tins of  Needhams, Pfeffernusse, Pizzelles, Springerle, Almond Crescents and various French Pastries.  She was a baking machine during December. A lot of the cookies she would plate up,  cover and bow, and give to friends, co-workers and people who helped our family. The paperboy I think even got cookies...but certainly the plow guy and the trash guy. Nonetheless, there were always enough cookies for me and my brothers and my dad...sometimes lasting until a few months into the New Year. I can honestly say that I can't ever recall my mother stilling down and enjoying them herself. The fulfillment she got from seeing others enjoy her cookies, maybe even just the idea of the thing,  must have been just fine for her....not so for me.  Christmas Cookies, I'll admit, are my weakness. Part nostalgia, part simple, pure unadulterated flavors...almond, vanilla, butter, sugar, molasses, cinnamon, nutmeg, clove...what is not to love? Though I have to say...it feels good to see someone smile when they receive your homemade cookies.

 

While I can't claim to have the same dedication to baking the classic cookies my mother made...I definitely have become my mother's daughter...and spend my fair share of time in the kitchen, baking batch after batch leading up to the Holidays. It is a busy time of year for everyone...but being in the wine / cheese & chocolate industry...it is by far the busiest month of the year for our businesses and my wine sales job. But, I make time for the cookies. For the most part my baking repertoire is all my own. I make my Grandmother Gretchen's Soft Ginger Cookies with Coffee Frosting, my Grandmother Ruth's Buckeye Balls, various almond cookies, Raspberry Strippers, Biscotti and Classic Christmas Cookie Cutter Cookies with frosting & colored sugar sprinkles. I am pretty sure my mother considers it a great tragedy to not carry on the Classics...but at least (I think) she appreciates that while I am doing my own thing, I am still carrying on her Holiday baking tradition.

 

 

 

 

The Gingerbread House is where I remain fairly true to my mother. I fudge the measurements and usually go a bit bigger with the dimensions...but the result is pretty close to the Gingerbread House my mother made when I was growing up in Maine. It is an impressive and colorful work of wonder. A masterpiece really...complete with winter action going on in the yard (miniature people coming to visit, a couple of trains, a festive Nutcracker, a reindeer, a sleigh, a dog in his winter doghouse)  a candy cane fence, a heavily adorned and colorful roof of hard to find hard candies, a welcoming wreath over the front door, shutters for the windows, a back door, Santa up on the chimney...and a tree inside with presents next to it.  Every year there are variations....but it is mostly the same. As my son Finn will tell you (as he explained to his 1st Grade Class this year for his Family Holiday Traditions project), it takes two days to make: 1 day to bake the gingerbread pieces and 1 day to assemble. Finn is now a 4th Generation Gingerbread House builder/maker. His Great Grandmother Gretchen started it all...for her kids:  Martha, Mary and my dad, Patrick.

 

 

All of this...in effort to create for my son the essence of what I remember as the great comforts of home during the Holidays. Decorating the tree, baking the Christmas Cookies, building the Gingerbread House, reading from The Bible on Christmas Eve before opening presents...are traditions at our house that carry on the things I loved as a kid. Home for the Holidays, there is no better place to be...no other place to be.

 

 

 



 



Up to where I love to go...

 The Cabin

 

 

There is a cabin a few miles up in the wilderness not too far from where I live. I have to drive up an old private road...and then ski for an hour and a half in to get to it. My legs always feel a bit stiff as I kick off...but almost immediately energy starts flowing through my muscles...a magical relief from stagnancy. My body feels better with every stride. After a little while there is a meadow and the valley opens up…I breathe in the vastness. On the far right across a river the trail goes into the woods.

 

 

The river is frozen over in the winter and easy to cross...though early in the season I can still hear the sound of the water flowing forth underneath. In some places I can see it rushing past under a thin ice layer....making the sound of Zen. Once across, the trail heads deep into the woods for an hour, I am skiing in the forest with not a soul around. It is only me with my thoughts, dreams, problems...all getting worked out in my head as I move through the woods, not even noticing my effortless kick and glide.

 

 

Trees line both sides of the trail, leading me down the white path. This is beautiful. Every now and then something catches my eye...tiny tracks of a little animal that has danced recently in the snow.  I roll back my shoulders. Clean cool fresh air fills my lungs, I breathe it in. A hint of pine, mostly dormant from the winter cold, awakens my senses. This is what calls me out here: the serenity of open space. Peace, quiet, me.

 

 

Then, there, over on the side of the trail, I notice a limb and hoof of a bigger animal and I am suddenly aware and reminded that I am out on an adventure far away from Main Street. Things can happen, I alert myself. Moose, deer, even mountain lions...bear in the summer, hang out here.

 

 

The wind picks up, the trees start to sway shaking loose snow, blurring the view, weathering my face. I push on...up some rolling hills. My waxed skis grip as I try to stay light on my feet and make it up to the top. Just a little further...up there ahead on the hillside to the left...is the rustic, simple, cabin.