The art of imperfection and choco-buckwheat-banana bread

I'm a bit of a perfectionist, which you might not realize from that less than perfect picture above (grumble grumble at my apartment, which I'm currently sick of with its lack of photograph-able spaces plus my general lack of certainty over how long I'll have to stay here...plus my lack of camera skills). Maybe as I get older, though, it's finally starting to sink in that not everything has to be perfect all the time, and sometimes the best stuff isn't perfect at all.

Take this bread. Which is by no means perfect. But it started with a perfect intention. R bought a huge bunch-o-bananas for post-boxing smoothies, but they were languishing on the counter top. Before they went too far, though, I came home from work and decided that banana bread must be made.

(We already had a Pyrex dish full of frozen banana slices in the freezer, otherwise I would have shoved them in there, as I'm not a fan of after-work baking.)

Now, gluten-free baking is a little tricky, especially for people like me who can't be bothered with measurements, and therefore don't really have any business being bakers at all. But, like all my other cooking and creative endeavors, I had at it and hoped for the best.

And, this came out...okay. But with a few tweaks, it's elevated all the way to super yummy:

(1) It tastes infinitely better when warmed up. Buckwheat is dense, and since I only used buckwheat flour, these loaves came out pretty compact and a little warming up helped amp up the coziness factor and tamp down the why-am-I-eating-a-brick factor.

(2) You need to serve it with either a dollop of good yogurt or swiped with a rash of butter. Either way, you'll also need a sprinkle of sea salt on top because, oopsie, forgot that below (so if you make this and add salt to the batter, no need to when serving).

// Choco-buckwheat-banana bread
Makes two 9-inch circular pan loaves

5      bananas (1 lb 5 oz)
2.5   cups buckwheat flour
2.5   teaspoons baking powder
2      tablespoons cinnamon
2      eggs
1      cup milk
2      teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2   cup chopped hazelnuts (optional)
5      tablespoons cacao powder
2      tablespoons maple syrup

Preheat oven to 375F. Whisk together your wet ingredients. Then sift together the dry ingredients before combining all together. Pour into pans and bake for 30 minutes. //

Next time doing this I'll include salt in the batter, put in a little less cacao, and perhaps use a mix of almond flour and buckwheat flour. I might also add in some coconut oil, so they have more of that traditional banana bread texture and mouthfeel.

But the thing is, even with all the changes I'd make next time, this bread is still perfect just as is when enjoyed at home, with R, after sharing a nice meal together and chatting about what comes next.

(As long as it's warmed up with the requisite toppings, of course).

End of summer pullover

I think what I love most about knitting, when I don't have a ton of redo's to do, is the crazy transformation of a ball of fiber into something I can wear out into the world. I know it seems from my scribbles here that I watch a lot of TV/movies, but in reality, 95% of the time that there's something playing, I'm doing something else. The only times I'm ever really solely watching a screen is if it's a specific movie with R. Otherwise, it's usually a program or documentary on in the background, while I do something with my hands. For a long time they were hovering over a keyboard of some sort, but for the last few years they've been immersed in a fluff of woolen bits. Stitch by stitch, from a lap full of yarn, alongside a mug of Sunday morning coffee or weeknight glass of fizzy water (or...wine), to a drawer full of sweaters and tanks.

While I used to stay up late to finish a good book, now almost every time I pull an all-nighter, it's because I made a mistake in whatever I'm knitting and want to redo it, or I'm just on a roll and have to keep on rolling, or I have a ball of yarn to wind—which takes concentration so I don't create a tear-inducing snarled mess. Granted, now that I share my bed, I can't really stay up late snuggled between the sheets immersed in a good book (and late-night page turning on the couch just isn't as good), but I'm pretty sure that it'd be the case, regardless.

Unlike sewing, knitting requires quite a bit of forethought—which of course isn't something I always excel at doing because I'm so impatient to get cracking. You can't just rip a seam and redo. Knitting requires that you plan ahead, unless you want to unravel all your work and start over. It's not nearly as forgiving as other crafts, and maybe that's why I like it: you have to work (really) hard for it, especially when it comes to something to wear vs. something to use, and it forces you to either love it or hate it. I don't think there's really an in-between—I suppose you could say there are some parallels with that sentiment and with how people feel about me, but we can talk about that later.

Knitting is addictive, too. As soon as I bound off that baby set, I cast on for this (literally, the same evening). And, when I bound off these stitches, I cast on later that day for another project.

It can be a little daunting to have multiple pieces of a knit creation floating around, because any time you hold stitches aside and pick them up later to knit (as you would for a sweater when you start at the shoulder and continue down the body, holding stitches aside for the sleeve), you (well, maybe not you, but certainly I), risk that you might pull at the structure and inadvertently muss up the lines.

Which is why I'm crazy for projects that are either worked in the round (as you would do a sock) and / or worked flat, and then seamed up at the edges to create something wearable. The latter is how this pullover was created.

Do you see those diagonal seam lines? The way this is constructed, you knit one long rhomboid, with a hole in the center for your neck and funny batwings hanging off either edge. Then, because this stitch creates a diagonal pull like a bias-cut dress, you have to wind the flaps around themselves to create the tubes that become the body and sleeves. So those seams you see across the arm and midsection aren't design elements, but the foundation for turning a misshapen blob of fiber (both R and I were thinking that I had just wasted a whole week when we saw what I was left with before seaming) into something that actually resembles a sweater.

I could have stood to make this a wee bit bigger at the hemline so it lay flat instead of that little foldover, but, as usual, I worried that it was going to be too floppy, so I erred on the smaller side and luckily it juuust fits. Any fewer stitches and it would probably have been too uncomfortable to wear.

And: a few more vanity shots, just because. Now, what to knit next?

Sicilia Selvaggia, Wild Sicily

"I'm so glad that I fell in love with a Sicilian. There's something about the uninhibited, but many-times-over-inhabited land that makes sense to me. The fiery spirits and fiery food, the wildness of the plains, the roughness of the rocky crags, the introvertedness of people living in small, remote hilltop towns where they only speak Ancient Greek, the hooded glances and double-voweled and -consonant'ed dialects that echo Arabic origins, the fierceness and protectiveness of a much-conquered people. I don't think I'd ever set foot in a place that I recognized as much as I did as when I first rode the night train from Reggio Calabria on the mainland to Messina, the port of entry into Sicily.

Waltzing waterfront walks

I have a bad habit of cocooning myself at home on the weekend—give me an uninterrupted block of 48 hours and I'll fill them up with projects and cooking and cleaning and reading and planning and exercising and nesting to my heart's content, all from the comfort of our apartment. R does not understand this at all. He rarely spends an entire day at home when he's not working, whereas I do it quite often.

But last Sunday I had it in my head to take an early morning walk along the waterfront with a good classical radio station playing. I meant to head out for half an hour, but instead, I meandered about for almost three times that, weaving amidst families and dogs and couples and runners and toddlers while listening to Chopin's Mazurkas and Mozart's Rondeaus. 

I started off at Pier 15 on the East River Esplanade, wound my way around the southernmost tip of Manhattan, up through Robert Wagner Park and in and around Battery Park City. Doggie heads were patted, new construction was noted, and the rest of my day was planned.

I had told R the day before that I was making a roast chicken for dinner that evening, and he begged me to roast it over a pan of potatoes, but I insisted that I couldn't, since I had already decided the rest of the meal and potatoes played no part. Plus, I had already done the shopping and no potatoes were to be found in our fridge.

Before we went to sleep he said, "really, no potatoes?". I stood firm.

But of course before I made my way home Sunday morning I took a loop by the market and picked some up. Although, if potatoes had to be had, they'd be done my way, so I also scooped up some sweet potatoes and parsnips to combine with the carrots and onion wedges at home. Altogether I had a nice little bed for my chickadee to roast over.

There was also a cabbage salad with a mouth-puckering vinegar dressing dotted with mustard seeds and tossed with bacon, its renderings and pickled onion, plus a roasted puree of eggplants and poblano peppers. Followed up by a platter of blueberries and homemade chocolate.

The mister was delighted to see some crispy-skinned potatoes and I was delighted that he let me have all the best bits of the chicken, including the parson's nose, as he was too busy spearing his tubers to notice me taking it all for myself. Turns out a little break from the weekend cocoon is a good thing.

Bittersweet

I'm not one to deal well with uncertainty. I like having a plan, whether it's for a morning at home, Sunday dinner, a vacation abroad, or where I'll be living in a few months.

The last one's probably a biggie for everyone, though, so no fair that I'm counting it. But, counting I am because it's rearing its head again. After we found out that my request for Swedish residency was denied, everything got thrown into the blender again. Do we try to extend our lease (even knowing that they told us last time we could no longer do less than 1 or 2- year extensions)? Do we figure out temporary housing? What do we do if the appeal is denied, too? We've been under the assumption that our time in the U.S. is up and we are moving abroad as soon as we can, but, what if that's not actually going to happen?

Our lawyer said it could take three months from the submission of our appeal for the courts to make a ruling. He's just filed our paperwork, so that would mean, theoretically, a decision by the beginning of December at the latest. Except that's just after our current lease ends. And, even if we had permission to leave and were actually able to get everything in gear, we have to stay thru December for the baptism of our godson.

So, you can imagine I'm handling all of the uncertainty and stress of not knowing if we'll need to find a way to sell our belongings and ship the rest in a few months, or next year, exceptionally well.

The only obvious solution was to make a pan of dark and salty chocolate.

It was delicious and decadent and I am definitely making some more this weekend.

Dante's layette

In a few months a couple will descend from a plane for the holidays here in New York and after a handful of weeks they'll board another to return to their new home in Italy. Only on the flight back across the Atlantic they'll be a trio, instead of a duo.

Rather than welcome their firstborn child on their new-found expat soil, they've decided to come home and birth (another!) American. Lucky for me, as things are a bit too crazy at the moment for me to jet there for the wee one's arrival and baptism (that's right, you're looking at a first time godmother here!).

I'm sure it will be surreal when the day comes for R and me to grow our own little family, but for now, I can't imagine anything more surreal than someone I grew up with creating another little someone.

The pops is a bit of a professorial sort: academic, studious, down in the weeds when it comes to history, a penchant for pontificating—all of which make him an excellent lawyer. And, all of which helped me decide to make a collegiate cardigan for his newborn son, instead of a baby blanket or onesie.

It's probably also why in my head (and on my Ravelry project page), I've been referring to this set of handknit goodies for the babe as Dante's Cardigan, Hat, & Booties.

When picking out colors I was dead-set against anything blue (I like to be unexpected, plus my mom was whipping up her own blue set), nor did I want to use burgundy (as suggested to me by the father-to-be—?!). But, a creamy white and soft heather gray seemed the perfect combination for this winter baby boy.

As usual when it comes to me creating wearable knits, this too required a reboot. I suppose I approach every area of my life: from cooking, to falling in love, to knitting, in the same way. Jump in and adjust later. Which is odd, given how much of a planner and organizational nutcase I am. But then again, I am an impatient gal, too. So, quite the combination, indeed. And, to be fair, I did plan this out—I just planned pretty poorly.

The pattern for this was for a newborn, but I wanted this to last my little godson his whole first winter, so I purposely knit it bigger. Only thing is, my calculations were a bit off and the shoulders looked like a Meg Ryan blazer from the 80's. But being stubborn, I thought I could just even it all out at the end, so I kept knitting. Once I bound off the last stitch, it of course still looked just as wonky as it did at the beginning. As R watched in horror, I ripped the whole thing apart and started over. The idea of gifting something that I wasn't 100% proud of was worse to me than the idea of redoing the cardigan.

So, back to Row 1, this time with newly calculated measurements. Much better.

Thankfully the hat and booties were good to go after the first attempt. Here's hoping it all fits him—and that he, and his parents, approve!

Lavender-Peppermint muscle relaxing & boo-boo balm

I can hardly believe it's September already—my favorite month of the year! The air's getting crisper, I'll need to refresh our tea selection soon and long weekend rambles are about to get ever so much more comfortable.

We've had a good summer, though. Yes, the usual citizenship shenanigans were definitely the lowlight, but in the midst of all that, so much to be grateful for. We kicked off the season with a bang on the Riviera Maya, had our fill of lazy weekends, Mexican fiestas, after-work picnics, and woolly knitting sessions. And while I concentrated on rediscovering cocktail culture, R decided to concentrate on some-might-say worthier pastimes, like taking up mixed martial arts again.

When he lived in Stockholm in his 20s he trained with one of the founding families of jiu-jitsu, but when he went back to Sicily and then came here, he couldn't find anyone that taught the same style that he grew up with. I found that a little suspect, especially when he moved to New York, but he doggedly went up and down and across the isle of Manhattan (and even into Brooklyn) to try out all the ones he found and pronounced them all not quite right.

Then this spring we noticed lots of construction on a corner a few blocks from us. There's always something going on, especially downtown, but wouldn't you know, a brand new gym specializing in Brazilian jiu-jitsu opened up two minutes away from our apartment.

R signed up for a membership as soon as we returned from Mexico and has been going by after work a few times a week since then. Afterwards he's completely tuckered out, but with that post-boxing, post-sauna soak blissed out look on his face that makes me so happy. You know I'm all set with my own DIY training, so I always felt sad that he hadn't found the right niche for himself. But now he's coming home with nicked knuckles and hardcore hand wraps and enjoying himself silly.

Until I walked in one night recently and saw him sitting in the corner of the couch with his gym gear on (so already I was freaking out at the thought of sweaty clothes on cream couch), but when my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw he had his foot propped up on our blanket-stacked footstool with a dishcloth-wrapped bag of ice on top. He was sporting a forlorn look on his face and he said to me in a 6-year old voice, "I hurt my foot".

I immediately switched from annoyed hausfrau into Florence Nightingale, bent to look and yep, his left foot was swollen and a not-so-pretty color. Nothing was broken or sprained, but through some combination of someone holding a bag wrong and the wrong angle of his kick, there was a mighty nasty bruise getting purplier as I stood and stared.

He asked if we had any Bengay. We don't, but I had something better.