Crumpets

“Shall we, too, Mary Poppins?” he asked, blurting out the question.

“Shall you, too, what?” she enquired with a sniff.

“Live happily every afterwards?” he said eagerly.

A smile, half sad, half tender, played faintly round her mouth.

“Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. “It all depends.”

“What on, Mary Poppins?”

“On you,” she said, quietly, as she carried the crumpets to the fire.

Mary Poppins Opens the Door, by P.L. Travers

My mom used to make fresh muffins almost every morning for breakfast. There were a few we didn’t like–cinnamon sugar donut muffins, inexplicably, come to mind–but we loved most of them, slathering them with an assortment of condiments–PB & J, sunflower seed butter, Earth Balance. Crumpets, however, were one of our favorites.

The crumpets my mother makes–has always made–are not quite traditional English crumpets. According to Wikipedia, traditional English crumpets have holes in the top so that when you put butter on them you get caves of melty butter. Traditional crumpets are usually made with a few simple ingredients: flour, yeast, milk, salt. Sometimes sugar and baking power or baking soda. Crumpets are eaten in the UK, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia, and have been part of British cuisine since the 1700s.

My mother’s crumpets are gluten free and contain eggs, oil, and vinegar, and use water instead of milk. And she only bakes them in the traditional circular crumpet shape half the time. There is another difference, too–my mother’s crumpets are baked in the oven, instead of being cooked on a griddle, and we never toast them.

Despite these differences, my mother’s crumpets, although perhaps not fully deserving of the name, are divine. In our house they have doubled as hamburger buns, sandwich bread, and vehicles for countless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

The Mary Poppins books are another nostalgic item for me. My older sister read them all aloud to me multiple times when we were younger. I loved the ridiculous and whimsical adventures, and, threading through it all, the sober theme of growing up.

The story with the crumpets in it is the one about New Year’s Eve, when Jane and Michael’s toys and the characters from their books come to life and dance together in the park until midnight. It’s curious to me how Travers ties the idea of Happily Ever After to New Year’s Eve, which is usually a time of looking ahead to the coming year and celebrating the one that’s just passed. (Even this strange year, I find I have so much to be grateful for.) But Happily Ever After implies that the future is fixed, certain to be serene and, well, happy. Of course, Mary Poppins throws a wrench in that idea–saying that our Happily Ever Afters depend on us: The decisions we make, the people we decide to become.

Maybe the only News Year’s resolution we need to make is to be the kindest people we can be: to be decent human beings. Because change, and Happily Ever Afters, begin with individuals.

Ting-aling! From somewhere down below in the Lane came the sound of the tinkling bell.

“I said ‘Who wants crumpets?’ Didn’t you hear me? The Crumpet Man’s down in the Lane.”

There was no mistaking it. The voice was the voice of Mary Poppins, and it sounded very impatient.

Mary Poppins Opens the Door, by P.L. Travers

Crumpets

2 ^1/4 cup gluten free baking flour

2 ^1/2 tsp baking powder

3/4 tsp salt

1 Tb sugar

1 ^1/2 Tb yeast

1 ^1/2 cup water

2 eggs

3/4 tsp vinegar

1/4 cup oil

Combine dry ingredients, including yeast. Add wet ingredients and beat until smooth. Pour into 12 greased muffin wells or rings. Let rise 20 minutes. Preheat oven to 375ºF and then bake 20 minutes, or until done.

Careers and Chocolate Chip Pancakes

I had smelled the batter cooking from upstairs, but I still act surprised when Dad unveils the first course–chocolate chip pancakes covered in homemade whipped cream. …

“A toast,” he says, clinking my glass, “to endings and beginnings.”

The Undoing of Thistle Tate, by Katelyn Detweiler

I didn’t love The Undoing of Thistle Tate. The writing didn’t sparkle, the characters annoyed me, and can we please, for once, have a Y.A. where a homeschooler is not a hermit with one friend?

I will say, though, that this book made me hungry for chocolate chip pancakes.

The Undoing of Thistle Tate is about a girl (Thistle Tate) who is living a lie; her dad writes a wildly successful Y.A. series, but everyone–including his agent, editor, and publishing house–thinks Thistle is the author. I picked this book up because the premise of a teen author (even a fake one) intrigued me.

When I was twelve I was desperate to get published; I even sent off a book about my neighbor’s anthropomorphized dog to several literary agencies. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve relaxed on my writerly goals. Just a few weeks ago I viewed my main task as gathering experience so I could write books that are more meaningful to more people. Now, however, I’m not sure I want to write books for publishing at all. The publishing industry is a massive and not particularly friendly beast. I’m unconvinced that I have anything worthwhile to bring to the table.

For now, I’ve mostly stopped writing fiction. I’m focusing on my blogs instead. (Yes, blogs. Plural. This one and The Confirmed Nonconformist.) I know I have plenty of time to become a famous author if I ultimately decide that’s the route I want to tread. Gail Carson Levine didn’t start writing until she was forty. Louise Penny knew she wanted to be an author from the age of eight, but her first book wasn’t published until she was 46. Robin McKinley published her first book, Beauty, when she was thirty.

The scene in TUoTT that I copied an excerpt from above is at the end of the book, where Thistle is sharing a farewell dinner with some of her new friends before she goes to college. I’ve opted not to partake in the generally taken post-high school path, but that doesn’t mean that I’m giving up education. I just read a quote this morning, in fact, from Dean Kamen, who is the inventor of Segway. He said, “I’m undegreed, but I don’t consider myself uneducated.”

In about a month my mom is driving me to a farm in North Carolina, where I’ll begin my own peculiar course of study: learning about goats, chickens, bees, ducks, permaculture, and so much more. With the knowledge that I gain on the farms I visit in 2021, I hope to start my own farm.

Since I’m a rampant perfectionist, I know that at some point I will have to make a decision: I either have to lay aside my fear and give my writing to the world, or I have to invest my talents in something else–such as farming! But this point of decision hasn’t come yet. For now, if you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen, making these chocolate chip pancakes.

Chocolate Chip Pancakes (from the Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook)

Ingredients

• 1 1/4 cups flour (I used Bob’s Red Mill’s Gluten Free 1-to-1 Baking Flour)
• 2 Tb sugar
• 2 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 beaten egg
• 1 cup milk
• 1 Tb cooking oil
• As many chocolate chips as your heart desires (I eyeballed it; the original recipe does not include chocolate chips)

Directions

Mix together the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Combine egg, milk, and oil. Add the wet to the dry and stir until blended but slightly lumpy. Don’t forget the chocolate chips!!! Pour about 1/4 cup of batter into a hot, lightly greased nonstick pan. Cook on both sides until golden brown.

I didn’t make homemade whipped cream; instead, my sister and I like our pancakes with peanut butter or maple syrup. (Or both!) This recipe makes about 8 four-inch pancakes.

Grateful for Poetry and Okonomiyaki

Zena spells t-h-a-n-k u

and I say there’s a shorter way to do that

and show her how to spell

39 for sankyu–

san for three

kyu for nine

which is how thank you sounds

with a Japanese accent

Holly Thompson, The Language Inside

November is supposed to be all about gratitude. We might hear something about some Indians and some pilgrims and some corn, too. But mostly, we’ll be tucking into plateaus of pie and mountains of stuffing and oceans of cranberry sauce. (I’m vegetarian, so turkey isn’t a big factor for me.)

One of my favorite Thanksgiving traditions apart from the stuffing, though, is my family’s Thanksgiving tree. Every year around November 1, my mom paints a tree–or makes a paper bag “bark” one–on a huge sheet of freezer paper and hangs it on the wall. I cut out a million leaves, which then go into a pretty, fabric-covered can on the dining room table beside a similar can of colorful Sharpie pens and a roll of Scotch tape. Every evening, after dinner, each of us writes something we’re thankful for on a leaf and attaches it to the tree. By Stuffing Day (let’s give the poor turkey a break, okay?), the tree is full of gratitude.

“That was a nice story, Karis,” you say, “but how does it tie in with poetry or … O-ko-no-mi-ya-ki? What even is Okonomiyaki?”

Good questions. I’ll start with the second one.

Okonomiyaki is a Japanese egg-and-cabbage pancake, which is way more delicious than it sounds. I learned a lot about Okonomiyaki from a website called http://okonomiyakiworld.com. The word “Okonomiyaki” is compounded of two words: “Okonomi”, meaning “what you like”, and “yaki”, meaning “grilled.”

The dish in its current conception was developed and popularized during World War II, when rice was in short supply and wheat was plentiful. Since then, the dish has evolved and matured into what it is today. There are two main styles: the Kansei/Osaka version (where all the ingredients are mixed into the batter) and the Hiroshima version (where the ingredients are layered in the pan). The dish is then traditionally topped with mayonnaise, okonomi sauce, bonito flakes (dried fish), and seaweed flakes or powder.

The first time I made okonomiyaki, I used an Americanized recipe, added two more eggs than were called for to get it to hold together, did not top it with okonomi sauce or mayonnaise or bonito flakes, and was disappointed by the results. Then I actually researched it and discovered that, traditionally, the pancake includes many ingredients that are not common in America: Dashi (a broth made of fish and kelp), yam starch, okonomiyaki flour (which usually has added flavors), and tempura pieces.

The second time I made it, I used Okonomiyaki World’s guide to make a slightly more traditional version. (Very slightly.) I still didn’t love it, but you should’ve seen the pancake flip! I was really proud of that.

Okay! Now! Let’s talk about the book.

The Language Inside is a Y.A. Contemporary novel in verse. The main character, Emma, is American but grew up in Japan. Coming to Massachusetts with her family so that her mom can get treatment for breast cancer, Emma must reconcile her Japanese background with her American face. A Cambodian boy named Samnang and a paralyzed woman named Zena help her to find her way.

I first read The Language Inside in 2017 and loved it–the story, the characters, the creative format, the FOOD, all of it. When I went to put the book on hold at the library to reread it this time, however, I found that they no longer had any copies. Of course, I was forced to buy my own copy. 😉

There is so much food in this book, and it all reflects the book’s diversity: Okonomiyaki and yuzu preserves from Japan, sweet-and-sour lemongrass soup and lort noodles from Cambodia, moussaka from Greece, oatmeal raisin bars and pizza from America. (Hey, if you’re looking for a turkey replacement for your Thanksgiving feast, why not make okonomiyaki? It’s 2020. Anything goes.)

If that doesn’t convince you to read it, did I mention that it’s written in verse?? Not only that, but the characters read and write a lot of poetry in this book; there’s even an index of the poems mentioned throughout the book in the back. I had fun looking up and reading some of them on poetryfoundation.org.

So: The Language Inside is part novel, part history lesson, part food tour, and part poetry guide.

All I can really say about it is: Please go read it. Sankyu.

Hope, Remembrance, and Soup

On this particular day, for this particular banquet, Cook had outdone herself. The soup was a masterwork, a delicate mingling of chicken, watercress, and garlic.

The Tale of Despereaux, by Kate DiCamillo

Whoever invented soup: Thank you.

Every culture, I think, has some kind of soup, from Russian borscht to West African peanut. Where would we be without soup? Soup is comfort in edible liquid form. Which … doesn’t sound very good. But it is!

When I was young and ignorant, I disliked soup. Well, that’s not true; there was one soup I liked: it consisted of pinto beans, bacon, and onions, and it was perfect.

Now I am older and wiser and I love all kinds of soup.

I think all of us are in a strange in-between place. We’re wistfully remembering the world as it used to be before COVID-19 and we’re hoping for the lifting of the disease that has paralyzed the world.

In my own life, I’m between high school and the what comes after; as I face a frightening and frustrating new world of debit cards, taxes, tithing, and income, I remember (with heavily rose-tinted highlights) all the years I didn’t have to worry about those things. But at the same time I’m hoping for the future, when I’ll have adulting figured out (ha!) and am truly on the path I’m passionate about.

Remembrance. Hope. The in-between bits of life–which, one could argue, are the only bits of life. What can we do when we’re stuck in the in-betweens, waiting for the next stage of our lives to start? Make soup, of course.

She was asleep and dreaming of her mother, the queen, who was holding out a spoon to her and saying, “Taste this, my sweet Pea, taste this, my darling, and tell me what you think.”

The princess leaned forward and sipped some soup from the spoon her mother held out to her.

“Oh, Mama,” she said, “it’s wonderful. It’s the best soup I have ever eaten.”

“Yes,” said the queen. “It is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“May I have some more?” said the Pea.

“I gave you a small taste so that you would not forget,” said her mother. “I gave you a small taste so that you would remember.”

The Tale of Despereaux, by Kate DiCamillo

Chicken, Watercress, and Garlic Soup

Sauté as much garlic as you’d like in a bit of olive oil. When it’s soft and fragrant, add some chicken stock. Once the chicken stock is warm, add in a few handfuls of watercress. Stir to wilt the greens; when they are wilted, serve and eat.

(I’m sorry about the vagueness of the recipe; I really didn’t follow one. I made the chicken stock from scratch. With such a simple soup, homemade chicken stock is indispensable.)

Seed-cake Marks the Beginning

“Come along in, and have some tea!” he managed to say after taking a deep breath.

“A little beer would suit me better, if it is all the same to you, my good sir,” said Balin with the white beard. “But I don’t mind some cake–seed-cake, if you have any.”

“Lots!” Bilbo found himself answering, to his own surprise; and he found himself scuttling off, too, to the cellar to fill a pint beer-mug, and then to a pantry to fetch two beautiful round seed-cakes which he had baked that afternoon for his after-supper morsel.

–The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien

As I was thinking about books and recipes that represent beginnings, I kept coming back to seed cake, because Bilbo Baggins served seed cake (among many other delectable-sounding dishes) at the unexpected party that kicked off all his adventures.

Since I have just recently become an adult, the theme of beginnings–symbolized here, rather arbitrarily, by seed cake–means more to me than simply the beginning of this blog. I have a feeling there’s a long road ahead of me.

Reading The Hobbit, I always wondered what seed cake was. The fact that my mother told me, “You wouldn’t like it,” simply added to my curiosity. If I had made it several years ago, she would have been right, but my tastes have expanded and I can now say that I do like seed cake very much!

Seed cake, which is basically just pound cake with caraway seeds mixed in, originated in the U.K. (Fun fact: caraway seeds are actually the fruit of the plant, not the seeds at all!) I also read that seed cake was especially popular during the Victorian era and that it was traditionally eaten after the sowing of the spring wheat as a sort of reward or celebration. So technically this is a spring recipe. But for me, seed cake represents the start of exciting new adventures. (Source: Wikipedia.)

I found the recipe below at the Hull History Centre blog. The Hull History bakers found the recipe in an edition of a magazine called “The Hull Lady” from December 1901.

Seed-cake

1 lb plain flour

1/2 oz caraway seeds

1/2 lb butter

1/2 lb caster sugar

1/4 pint milk

3 large eggs

1 Tb baking powder

 

1. Thoroughly grease a round cake pan. Set the oven to 320ºF. Put the flour in a bowl; add butter and rub or cut in until the mixture develops a “sandy” texture. Then mix in the caraway seeds.
2. Break the eggs into a separate bowl and beat for 5 minutes. Add the sugar and beat for another 7 minutes. Stir in milk.
3. Pour the egg/sugar/milk mixture into the flour mixture, add the baking powder, and mix well with a wooden spoon. Pour the batter into the cake pan and bake 1 hour, or until a knife in the center comes out clean.
4. Enjoy!

 

I plan to write a post once a month. If you’re wondering where I am between posts, I have not dropped off the face of the earth, returned in a damp huff to my fireside, or been eaten by giant spiders. I am simply planning the next stage of our journey. Stay well and always keep reading stories!

Best,

KB