Beef Stew

A gluten-free beef stew recipe to warm your bones.

This recipe is a surprise- even to me. Beef stew? You wouldn't expect a Vegetarian Goddess to create and fall in love with a beef stew recipe, but that is precisely what happened this weekend. Shocking? 

Tell me about it.

Just when you think you've got your life all figured out, and your tastes and preferences arranged in a tidy packet of self-identification and veggie piety- all Hades breaks loose. Celiac. Food allergies. Broken hip.

Suddenly, your food-world view is quite literally flipped on its leafy little head.

So, after my orthopedic surgeon's instructions to "eat lots of animal protein" to support the healing of my hip fracture, my husband and I decided to try our collective hands at making our very first beef stew together.

The first beef stew of our marriage.

And what did I do as I spooned the first taste into my hesitant, quivering lips? Gentle Reader, I swooned like a virgin in a bodice ripper. I sighed. I grew faint with pleasure. I slurped. Oh my! I murmured through one spoonful after another. Wow, said my partner in crime. This is mighty damn tasty.

You could have knocked us over with a feather.

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Chocolate Chip Cookies and Vanilla Blondies

Vanilla blondie? Or chocolate chip cookie Bar? You decide.

First- thank you all for your kind and compassionate wishes for a speedy recovery from emergency hip surgery. Such fabulous readers you are- every one of you. As our Italian friend, Sandra, once said to us- in her dead gorgeous Tuscan accent-  

I love you too much!

I feel human again. Yesterday (day nine post-surgery) this sticky, prickly goddess got to sit inside the shower (they make these nifty portable shower seats now) and- Aphrodite-blessed relief!- indulge in twenty sexy minutes of hot steamy bliss. Hawaiian shampoo. Rainbath lather. Leg shaving!

One lesson a broken hip teaches you? It's the little things in life that count. The simple luxury of taking a shower shoots to gold star status- the genuine, beyond spectacular highlight of the day. Pulling on a soft clean shirt? Heaven. Sitting upright, freshly shampooed and moisturized with Eternity lotion? Divine. Twirling pasta in olive oil and garlic- in bed- next to your husband? It doesn't get any better than this.

And then there are chocolate chip cookies (that are egg-free and dairy-free- earning them treasured vegan status). They also happen to be gluten-free, wheat-free, bean-free, soy-free and nut-free. Perfect for all those cute-as-a-button multi-allergic tykes out there. Not to mention, gluten-free vegan goddesses.

Last night Steve helped me make these as cookie bars, in the style of my old tried and true favorite chocolate chip cookie bar recipe- and, Babycakes, they were a damn good match. I named them Vanilla Brownies. My trick was a small cheat. A dab of butter flavor extract. I don't usually turn to artificial flavors (in fact, this is a first for me), but when you are allergic to most natural flavors and buckets of other foods and your taste buds crave a buttery sweet treat, this decidedly un-foodie goddess figures--- Why the Hades not? But if it horrifies you to use it, Darling Reader- and just the very thought of it keeps you up at night worrying about the integrity of the cookie universe- leave it out. It's one quarter of a teaspoon. Sub it with vanilla. Do your thing. 

It's all good.

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Screwed! But Sparky and Esteban Save the Day

Meet Sparky.

He's my new bed and blanket companion. Looking at him makes me smile. After the fall- there's an awful lot of imagery, sensation and emotion refracting inside this more-than-slightly addled post hip surgery brain of mine (this is a thinly veiled mea culpa for any bad writing that follows) but I wanted to send out a heartfelt thanks- lickity split!- to all of you, for your kind notes and sweet messages. I cherish every one.

My world has been whittled down to a queen size bed and some 800 square feet of floor space. I must keep- totally- off my left leg for a minimum of eight weeks to give my fractured femoral neck (screwed back together with three titanium screws) a fighting chance.

If you're a betting soul, here are the odds of me keeping my own hip: 50/50.

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Update...from Alex

Hello everyone --

Late Wednesday night my mother- Karina- fell and broke her hip, fracturing the neck of the femur above the proximal line. Since then, she has been through surgery to repair the damage and is recovering well. With any luck, she and Steve will be making the transition back to the casita to continue her recovery in the comforts of home, and will be back to posting on her blog in a few days. I know she is looking forward to getting in touch with all of her friends, fans and fellow bloggers.

-- Alex

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You're the hemp in my...

Just so you know? It's two in the afternoon.

And I spent the day- so far- in bed. Snuggled beneath a Pendleton blanket, cruising the information highway on Steve's laptop. Nibbling pieces of smoked salmon. Approving Spicy Comments. Paying bills. Ordering lavender pillows stuffed with rice or buckwheat [not to eat, Darling, to heat- in the microwave- till toasty and warm and soothing; therapy for this sleep-deprived blogger's crooked neck and quirky tummy still not right from her sojourn into public dining in Los Angeles].

In light of a certain individual's recent ranting (and her pondering whether to throw in the towel and head for the nearest smoke shop- conveniently located next to Saints and Sinners) this post will be a simple thank you to Certain Readers- you know who you are- for the suggestion of hemp.

Hemp, as in milk.

Hemp, as in, You're the hemp in my mate... (that's MAH-tay for those of you not familiar with Viggo's preferred caffeine source).

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My Humble Petition

(Parental warning- this post is rated PG 13)

Dear Wise and Merciful Goddess,

There have been so many gruesome failures (or quasi-semi-successes not worth sharing) in my tiny blue tiled cocina of late that I am perilously close to throwing in the towel and crying, WTF? I am spending days (yes, days!) feeling hollow from hunger because I can't find anything in the cruel pantry to eat. Especially for breakfast. And brunch. And snacks.

I can usually rustle up a tasty dinner built around potatoes or rice with a piece of fish or the one sausage I can eat. But truth be told- as you may already know in your omniscient all-knowingness- I am missing eggs and cheese like crazy this week. Dear Divine One, what I wouldn't give for one of my pasta frittatas. Or a sizzling tray of nachos. Or- Oy!- a hot and cozy slice of my roasted vegetable kugel.

With limited sources of protein to pick from- beef, pork and some fish- I am stymied at breakfast. Not to mention mid-day. And late afternoon snacks! I mean, seriously. Who wants to eat fish three times a day as my brisk and steely Nurse Practitioner (transplanted from coastal Maine, duh) advised?

And if might gently and sweetly ask, is it really wise to eat beef every day- even if it's grass fed and organic and roaming the range with Tommy Lee Jones and all that good stuff? I kinda doubt it. Not at my overheated pesky age.

As you well know, I'm no spring chicken.

Which I'm also allergic to. Here's the thing. Without my brown rice and beans, my peanut butter on rice cakes, my grabs of almonds and cashews, protein powder smoothies, and hummus? And those fast and fabulous grilled quesadillas? I am, quite frankly, more than slightly askew. Not to mention, cranky. And some days- like today, for instance? Yours in devotion is frustrated and gloomy and frankly, wicked pissed and hungry.

And I'm not going to lie about it.

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Hot Buckwheat Cereal with Cinnamon Apples

Hot buckwheat cereal- gluten-free comfort. With apples.

Nothing like a simple bowl of hot buckwheat cereal with cinnamon spiced apples to set you straight. Because winging it can get you into trouble. I know this. But I couldn't help myself. You see, I was just so (excruciatingly!) tired of pre-planning where to eat and schlepping bags of stale corn thins and green bananas that never get ripe and worrying myself into a veritable tizzy over whether or not some waiter-slash-actor might actually offer me an empathetic ear when I ask if the grilled tuna salad has a dairy-based dressing.

Not to mention feeling like a stodgy old stick-in-the-mud with a neon sign on my forehead that screams High Maintenance- when I'm not. Really. (Or maybe I'm in denial and actually one of those women who only thinks she's low maintenance, but she's really, you know, a major pain in the tuchas?)

So I traveled light and didn't obsess.

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