Month: September 2023

Cottage Pudding with Vanilla Sauce with gluten-free options

by stephsimply, posted in Uncategorized

“At home, my food is just sort of comfort food. It’s not super fancy, but it’s certainly tasty.”–Anne Burrell

Serve it up with strawberry sauce or any other fruit sauce.

When I read the above quote by TV celebrity chef Anne Burrell, I realized I do not know much about who she is or the type of foods she likes; her words simply resonated with me. Therefore, I am not sure if my idea of comfort food is the same as hers, but most of my favorite comfort foods are budget-friendly, including the recipe from my childhood I am sharing with you today.  I think this recipe is especially comforting on cool evenings like the ones we experience during the fall time of the year.

I grew up surrounded by women who knew how to cook, what I considered comfort food, and it was definitely low-cost.  Two of these women, my grandmothers, came of age during the depression and the World War 2 era that followed, so you know they had to learn to manage with few resources. And though my own mom did not grow up during such challenging circumstances, as the mother of four children, she definitely had to learn to cook as inexpensively as possible.

Don’t let the plain canvas fool you, the vanilla sauce is rich and thick!

Cooking on a budget does not have to equate with not eating well.  Some of the best and healthiest foods are quite often budget friendly–although I know this recipe is an exception with regards to “healthy.”.  In fact, this recipe uses common ingredients most of us have on hand if we bake with any regularity.  

As best as I can tell, based upon my limited research, this recipe originated in the mid-1800s in North America. “Cottage,” refers to the fact that the recipe was considered simple and affordable for common farmers and laborers of the time period.  “Pudding” is a word that dates back to England, and it was, and still sometimes is, used to refer to any dessert.  However, given this cake is served with a sauce, lending it somewhat mushy, perhaps the word pudding was intentional.

This shortbread-like cake lends itself to a wide-array of toppings, such as chocolate sauce.

Regardless of its history, I believe there is a time and place for celebratory, comfort food, and it doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg to make it.  This simple dessert is one my mom used to make on rare, but special occasions for the family when I was younger.  In fact, it was often made in honor of birthdays or other special events.  

I remember feeling excited as a youth when this was served.  Perhaps, it was the warm syrup served on top of it that made it feel special as if we were eating a thick, dense pancake for dessert.  Then, again, maybe because with six of us eating–four of which were kids, and only nine servings–I knew I had better enjoy and savor the dessert on the day it was made. (There certainly weren’t any leftovers that I can recall.) Plus, there was that simple vanilla flavor that was warm, comforting, and oh-so-tasty.

Load this cake up with your favorite fruit; it can hold up to it because it has more of a shortbread consistency.

I was reflecting on my impending birthday when this recipe came to mind.  I rooted around my old recipe box and dug this oldie-but-goodie recipe card. Since I had not baked it since well before my diagnosis of celiac disease, it occurred to me that I should create a gluten-free variation to celebrate my birthday. 

(My celiac disease went undiagnosed until my late 40s, so my mom would not have known I needed a gluten-free variation.  Besides, celiac disease was not really well-known/understood in the era in which I was raised.)   

I hope you will give this simple recipe a try.  The cake is quite similar to shortbread, or an old-fashioned biscuit–so it lends itself to a wide-array of toppings.  It’s traditionally served with a glaze or custard sauce, but you could certainly use any fruit toppings, or other traditional sauces, such as brown butter, caramel, lemon, or chocolate.  I certainly came across several recipe variations for sauces.   

The cake is a versatile canvas–welcoming all flavors and types of sauces.

Cut this cake into nine pieces.  Serve the cake warm and then drizzle plenty of sauce over it. Feel free to poke holes in the top of each piece before drizzling with syrup, as we used to do as kids, to soak up the maximum amount of syrup. It’s perfect with a cup of hot coffee, tea, hot cocoa, or even milk–if that’s your thing. 

From my home to yours, I wish you stories and memories filled with comfort food.

The original recipe written down for me by my mom. Notice there are three difference variations for the sauce.

Cottage Pudding with Vanilla Sauce

Ingredients:

1 ¾ cups flour, gluten free if needed

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

¼ cup soft shortening

¾ cup sugar

1 egg or plant–based egg substitute

1 tablespoon vinegar

¾ cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

Sauce:

Ingredients:

1 cup sugar

2 tablespoons cornstarch (ensure it’s from a gluten free facility it needed)

2 cups water

2 teaspoon vanilla 

¼ cup butter, can be vegan 

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Prepare 9×9 baking with nonstick cooking spray

Stir together flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl

In a mixing bowl, cream together shortening and sugar until light and fluffy

Beat in egg and vinegar until mixture is creamed together

Measure milk into cup and stir vanilla extract into it

Mixing slowly, add in about ⅓ flour mixture and ½ milk mixture

Once incorporated, add in another ⅓ flour mixture and rest of milk mixture

Add in remaining flour mixture until batter is smooth and well blended

Spread into prepared pan

Bake 25-30 minutes or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean

Allow to cool 10 minutes before serving with warm sauce

Makes 9 servings

To make the sauce:

Meanwhile, mix sugar and cornstarch together in a pan over medium heat

Gradually stir in water

Bring to a rolling boil for one minute, stirring constantly

Stir in butter and vanilla extract

Once butter has melted and all ingredients are blended, sauce is ready to serve

Save leftover in airtight container in refrigerator

Warm sauce to serve over cake whenever eating leftovers

This sauce makes great syrup for pancake, waffle, or french toast  

The Stardust of Grandparents Twinkles like their eyes

Featured by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings
Papaw, in the backyard of my childhood home, with my hand resting on his shoulder. I am not sure what the moment or occasion was, but this photo captured a moment between the two of us.

A Light from the tunnel of times past 💡

My mom found and gave to me a picture of her dad, Papaw, as I called him.  In the photo, he is in the foreground, sitting at a table on the patio of my childhood.  In the background of that picture are several small details of my childhood home.  Gazing for some time at that picture transported me backwards through a tunnel of times past.

To begin, I noticed the infamous backdoor that we weren’t supposed to slam as children heading out to play.  Then, there’s the wooden fence my dad built, which reminded me that he also designed and poured the concrete for that patio. Additionally, I can see part of our clothes line with its bag of clothespins.  I recall my mom teaching me the proper way to hang clothes, sheets, and towels to minimize wrinkles and shorten the drying time. 

He ultimately sold his grocery store business and worked for C & O Railroad.

Papaw 👴🏻

Once the surge of those background memories drifted down the stream of remembrances, another torrent of emotions began swelling–Papaw.  In the photo he sits in one of his classic jumpsuits that he wore nearly every day of his life except for yard work and church events. His smile is tender in this photo, and despite the not-so-great quality of the camera, the picture still manages to capture that twinkle in his eyes.

 I adored that man. Now, as an aging adult, I am certain that Papaw was full of flaws.  Family rumors of the daredevil antics of his youth, his hobo days after marrying my grandmother– leaving her for weeks at a time to raise two young boys and manage an independent grocery store with its own lunch counter by herself– his issues with depression, and perhaps even some philandering, were whispered stories among the family adults.  As kids, we gathered bits and pieces of these stories, as one does a torn up letter, but we were simply too young to put the pieces together.  He was simply our Papaw.

Papaw and me in his backyard.

Traveling Backwards through the Tunnel of time 🔙

Staring at the photo of this complicated man that I am only now beginning to see in a realistic light, I assess the other person in the photo.  She is a college student with her hand on Papaw’s shoulder–a habit I recognize because it is me.  I tend to place my hand on the shoulders of people who are seated at tables, or even desks in a classroom.  I suppose it is my way of saying I care about you; how can I help; or, can I get you anything?  It took my breath away upon first seeing it.  So much is captured in that frozen image of time.

Papaw often called me a Kewpie-doll or China-doll. I am sure this was because of my size.  I was small for my age for many of my younger years.  I was also often sick during this time period, and I recall being hospitalized at least twice.  Both memories are blurs of oxygen tents, IVs in my thighs, dimly lit hospital rooms, and Papaw’s worried face when I would wake with bleary eyes from sickness induced sleep.  

Papaw and me. I am sure I just “helped” him wash his car.

Purple Hazy memories 💜

I remember during one of these stays, he gave me a purple popsicle.  Purple was my favorite color–a color he hated because he associated it with Christ’s crucifixion–but when faced with two granddaughters (my cousin and I) who both loved purple, he came to terms with that color. But, I digress. 

Anyway, he gave me that half popsicle.  (Remember how adults would break those double-stick popsicles into two?)  I was lying on my side, with the hospital bed rail up, trying to lick the popsicle for him.  He said it would make me better, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  The popsicle melted, and I remember waking enough to experience a short burst of fear that I would get spanked for making a mess.  (Not that Papaw would have ever laid a hand on me, but I was sick, and logic eluded me.) 

There was another time I woke up in a hospital bed crying because there were needles in my legs (IVs) and I was scared.  Papaw patted my hand and told me not to be afraid as he wiped away his own tears. 

During one of those hospital stays he gave me a bouquet of pink plastic flowers that my grandmother sprayed with perfume.  Once home, I kept it in my bedroom for years, and I would sniff it countless times to see if I could still catch a whiff of that perfume.

Runaway Story 🏃‍♀️

Another time, Grandmother and Papaw came to stay at our childhood home while my parents were out of town.  I became mad at my grandmother for some reason–that part eludes me–but I decided to run away.  I lived on a small cul-de-sac in the country, surrounded by hills, so I am not sure where I thought I would go.  Nonetheless, I took off running in my headstrong way down the street until I got to the main road with fast moving cars and no real safe space to walk.

Tail tucked between my legs, I slowly trudged back to my house, and I slumped against one side of it, arms crossed, still mad, but losing steam.  Out of the house came Papaw. I don’t know how he knew I was there, but there he was.  I am not sure precisely what he said, but he did tell me a story about a time he ran away. He added, with great solemnity, that running away never solved problems.

Looking back on that now, I wonder if there was more he was confessing, but I would not have been old enough to catch the symbolism of his words.  I do recall Papaw encouraging me to be more understanding of my grandmother.  He further added that as the oldest child, he counted on me to be her biggest helper.  He wanted me to apologize to Grandmother and be “his girl” by being her helper from then on.

Even in high school, I still adored my Papaw.

A Grandfather’s Love 💖

And that is what it came down to.  When I studied that picture, I was reminded of being “Papaw’s girl,” something he probably also told all the other grandchildren.  Nevertheless, I believed he loved me most of all, and that made me feel special.  It now seems naive and silly, but that is how he could make me feel.  A feeling that has never left me, even now as I look at that image.

Young, handsome, and daring . . .

The Abundance of his legacy ✨

 Wiping away my reminiscing tears, I gaze at this man who was complex in ways I never knew. He only had a 5th grade education, but he still managed to educate himself through his endless curiosity. Papaw was complicated, and yet simple. He managed to ultimately live an abundant life. 

Papaw traveled all over the world with my grandmother visiting and staying with missionaries, and he also traveled through his hometown as a teen standing on his circa 1920s motorcycle. He was the trusted treasurer of his church for as long as I can remember.  Papaw played football before there was all the protective clothing, and he loved the game until Alzhiemer’s disease took his mind. He retired from C & O railroad, and he once owned a grocery store that was flooded twice by the Ohio River. It was the ‘37 flood that ended those retail days and inspired him to build a house on a hill.  Yet, this same man once swam across the Ohio River from South Shore, KY to somewhere near Portsmouth. 

He had three children, my mom being a late-in-life surprise, and he had nine grandchildren.  He loved us all. 

There are stars which I regard in the mornings when I walk or run.  They line heaven’s boulevard.  They twinkle their good mornings to me like Papaw’s eyes once twinkled his love.  I’d like to think he is part of their stardust. 

I wish I could give every child a grandfather like mine.

Pushing through limiting beliefs: the case for contemplative practice

Featured by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways.”–Corinthians 13:11 NRSV

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com

Push or pull 🚪

Years ago, when I first started dating my husband, we traveled to a local town center and parked in its parking garage.  In order to access the stairwell from the garage, you had to go through a set of glass doors, but we encountered a problem.  

The doors would not push open for us.  John tried.  I tried.  For the life of us, we could not get those doors to open.  We nervously stood there wondering if we would spend the entirety of our second date standing in a parking garage.  Finally, one of us, and by now, I do not remember who, read the sign on the door, “pull here.”  It was really that easy.  The doors opened as if by magic.

Sometimes we are focusing our energy on continuing to open doors that keep our beliefs limited.

This past week, I was reminded of that memory.  Throughout my workweek as an educator, I travel between the high school and the middle school, in order to teach classes.  Structurally, the two buildings are designed quite differently based upon the era in which they build.  Therefore, their doors are designed differently as well.

While I don’t have an issue, as you may have predicted, between pushing and pulling the doors open for either building, instead, it is remembering, on the high school side, which of the double doors leading to each floor is the correct door to pull to open.  Exiting any floor, both doors push open, but when entering the floor, only one door pulls open, and you guessed it, I tend to grab the wrong door and try to pull it open.  You’d think by now, I’d have it down.

When I once more tried to pull the wrong door open again this past Friday, I thought back to that second date with John, and I began to reflect on all the ways life can be like those doors.  How often do we continue to push through something in life, when really we only need to gently pull.  Or, how many times have we reached for the wrong door to open, when the “right” door was there all along?

How many times do we continue pull ourselves through the same doors in life, when all really need to do is pull open a new door.

Those unidentified LImiting Beliefs 🤔

Many of us, at one time or another, have allowed limiting beliefs to influence our choices and actions in life.  These beliefs could have been established in our childhood, steeped in the culture of our local environment, or even part of time-specific attitudes of a specific decade.  For example, you may have been raised in one set of faith practices and remained faithful to that belief system because it seemed like the “only one.”  Another example might be that you were raised in a community with a limited mindset, and therefore, that influenced a large portion of your choices in early adult years.  Then, again, due the decade or family situation in which you were raised, you may have only felt as if you could only pursue specific career paths.

None of the scenarios, or any of the other hundreds of examples, are inherently bad or wrong.  In fact, for many people, it works out just fine until one day it doesn’t.  Specifically, I recall a young lady I once knew. Throughout her young life, she was pushed by parents and their social group to focus on her looks, and she was encouraged to have boyfriends from a young age.  This young lady was beautiful, but she was also bright and kind hearted.  Still, the message she received was that her purpose was to finish high school, marry, and be a mother.

Again, there is nothing wrong with beauty, dating, marriage, and motherhood.  It was the fact that these ideas were valued and encouraged at a young, impressionable age, and indeed, she did what was expected of her. However, when she became pregnant by her senior year of high school and dropped out of school, she was suddenly the object of gossip and rumors.  Her parents were furious with her, unable to see their role in this situation.

Photo by Rafael Henrique on Pexels.com

Coming face to face with limited Beliefs 🧐

In one fell swoop, the young lady appeared to lose her support system, and her shift suddenly shifted from what she had been taught her whole life to the well-being of herself and her child. Eventually, she went to live with a friend and her family. 

It took her years of struggling, but eventually, I am told, the young woman moved out of the area, worked numerous part time jobs in an attempt to support herself and her child.  As her child grew, she began to take online classes.  First, she earned her GED, and later, she earned her associates degree in business.  Some years later, I learned this tenacious woman married and worked for a fairly large business firm.  She never had another child, and she rarely sees her family.  Her child, at last count, was in graduate school.

What I do remember about this young woman was that she once shared with me, early in her pregnancy, how she felt pushed to meet what she thought were the expectations of her.  She reflected that she had spent most of her teen years starving herself to maintain a certain size.  Her education was not prioritized, but rather her social life, specifically dating.  She was pushing through her youth to meet what she thought was her family and community expectation.

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com

Recognizing internalized beliefs 🤨

This is only one example. When we only know one way to push, that’s how we open doors in life.  Racism, sexism, bias against other religions or religious bias, prejudice, limiting beliefs about gender roles, and the list could continue, can be restrictive, and even detrimental, ideas that we may not realize we have internalized. These types of belief systems typically occur due to the way in which we were raised, the groups with whom we socialize, the community in which we live, or, the social media platforms we choose to follow.  

Many of us don’t recognize that we may have these internalized limited belief systems until something changes.  All of the sudden, we come face-to-face with a situation in which our beliefs will no longer open the proverbial life door.  For example, years after the young lady moved away, I ran into her mother.  Her mom was divorced, living in a different community, and added she was attending a completely different type of church.  

The mom openly shared with me her regrets about the way she raised and treated her daughter.  Hindsight–and a perspective shift–caused her to see life differently.  At that last encounter, she said she was trying to re-establish a relationship with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchild.  I hope it worked out for her.

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The case for Contemplative Practice 🙏

This is where having contemplative practice is important. Whether you do this through meditation, praying, formal scripture study with a trusted mentor, or simply set aside time to be with your own thoughts.  Self-examination and reflection of our actions and attitudes is critical for our personal growth as well as our spiritual growth. This includes taking time to identify areas in which we may still exhibit childish or limited beliefs, attitudes, and actions.  Once identified, the key is to consider the ways in which we can work to replace them with more mature, open-minded, and loving ways.

 In the end, we can keep moving through life pushing through doors based upon untested assumptions, or we can pause when we begin to feel resistance and ask ourselves if it’s time to pull, or at the very least, push open another door.  

Wounded Light: How our wounds, injuries, and hurts illuminate us

Featured by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Rumi, Sufi poet

Photo by Anastasiia Chaikovska on Pexels.com

Pain-handler 🔥

My daughter once made an off-hand remark about the way I handle pain. She said something to the effect that my legs could be broken, my hair on-fire, and I’d still claim to be fine because my arms were still working. Of course, she was exaggerating because I am definitely not immune to pain.

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I do, however, possess the ability to distract and/or redirect my focus away from discomfort.  On first glance, this can seem like a good thing, and I suppose, at times, it is.  Tolerating pain and challenges is what allows humans to get through tough times.  And while I could offer plenty of examples of the benefits for “shouldering through the pain/trauma/difficulty,” I think it is important to also recognize that by “shouldering through,” not only is it possible to create a bigger issue, but we are also missing an opportunity to see the Light within.

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Accepting Limits 🛑

There are times when it is necessary to acknowledge and accept our wounds/injuries.  The pain is signaling that, at least for the time being, we need to accept new limits and boundaries in order to enhance the healing process.  This is true not only for physical pain, but also true for mental health trauma.

However, for many of us, myself included, sitting with and accepting pain is often difficult. Whether it is genetics, environment, or society, many of us would much rather suffer through our pain with a smile painted on our faces, than truly feel and acknowledge that we are hurting.  For some, this is a matter of pride, for others, it may mean admitting defeat and/or imperfections–while for others it is simply an extension of their stoic nature.  

Then, there are those who know that to feel the pain would mean to feel their own brokenness, quite possibly forcing them to name their suffering.  This is often a result of the connotation society has attached to specific words associated with pain.  Words such as, injury, hurt, pain, broken, surgery, depression, anxiety, recovery, often have a negative association attached to them causing many to recoil in fear and resistance at such an identification.  For others, there is an association with weakness if identified as having one of those.

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Self-Compassion ❣️

It is with that understanding, I encourage all of us, myself included, to take time to acknowledge our wounds, our injuries, and our mental anguishes, past or present. Additionally, it is important to acknowledge the limitations and/or pain those hurts created.  Finally, it is most important to do these while offering ourselves compassion.  If a loved one was suffering with an injury, we would want to help them in any way we can, so let us begin to treat our own pains with the same level of tender-heartedness.  Taking time for our own healing is not a selfish act, but an act of seeing the Divine Light working within us.

I came across a line in a poem that said, “We are wounded healers,” and it really gave me a moment of pause.  The poet had a point, we have all been injured in some way, from scraped knees and elbows when we were children, to broken bones, illnesses, or a mental health crisis as we moved through our teens years and continuing into our present adulthood. It is important to note that each hurtful event informed and shaped us, whether we realized it or not. Unfortunately, there are many of us who have and/or continue to suffer silently through multiple painful experiences and traumas, past and present. 

 Our bodies and mental health have limits. When pushed past our natural boundaries, our injury or trauma signals us with pain in an attempt to get us to take time to allow the body and/or mind to heal. Given certain situations, there are times, events, and circumstances in which we lack the power to grant time for healing. This is often the case in childhood trauma and abusive relationships.  

Other times, however, we prefer the quick-fix route–give me a pill and make it stop method–so I can move on with my life. However, quick-fixes don’t always create an optimal environment for healing. Instead, they tend to mask the underlying issue, allowing the injury/pain to fester in silence. 

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Wounded Healers ❤️‍🩹

This is regrettable because in those moments of injury, when we allow our bodies or minds time to heal and recover; we begin to bear witness to the miraculous creations that we are.  The same Source that created us is the same Source that can help heal us, in tangent with a healthy dose of prescribed treatment.  Our bodies and minds have been uniquely fashioned with astonishing proportions of resilience, strength, and fortitude.  We can be wounded, but we can be healed.  We are all, in the words of the poet, wounded healers.

Numerous writers and poets have written that our wounds and injuries allow the Light to enter us.  This Light enlightens us.  In fact, the more we have been scared by life’s injuries, the greater our understanding of the fragility and preciousness of life.  Further, our capacity for empathy with those who are suffering also increases, thereby granting us the added insight to words and actions that may provide comfort to those experiencing similar injuries and wounds.

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The Light within 🕯️

Our many wounds and scars offer us greater illumination from within. Our True Source of strength resides in those areas. Those old wounds serve as reminders of our survival, growth, and our own knowing.  The knowing of how it feels to truly hurt, and the full joy of knowing what it means to heal and recover.  There is the additional  knowing that healing can sometimes hurt as tissue and mental faculties are fashioned together in a new, often more durable manner.  And there is the ultimate knowing that nothing, not injury, not pain, and not even us, lasts forever.

Therefore, the next time injury, pain, or suffering comes calling, can we challenge ourselves to allow it?  Can we learn the lesson it may be offering us? To be sure, the process is not easy, and it requires patience as well as a heaping portion of trust, especially when the other side of healing may not mean a pain free life. However, in the same way sunlight can illuminate even the smallest of cracks, we too can hold tightly to the faith that the Light, our True Source, can heal and shine through our wounded selves. 

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