Pumpkin Cupcakes with Maple Cream Cheese Icing

A new gluten-free dairy-free pumpkin cupcake recipe for Fall.

I am on (a much needed) vacation this week- staying at a wonderful gentleman's farm on Cape Cod. I'll share tales and pics when I return to the west coast. But until then, I'm reprising a pumpkin cupcake recipe for you. To show you that I'm thinking of you, here on this slender spit of land jutting bravely into the Atlantic.

Before I get to my new cupcake recipe, I need to wander off a bit. Just briefly. Because it's who I am. A person who wanders. Ponders. Finds solace in books. I've been like this since girlhood. Curious. Serious. No good at catching balls. Or dressing dolls. I am beyond inept with hair. And eyeliner.

I get anxious and non-verbal if I have to wear anything that isn't a pair of jeans.

It might be because I'm a child of The Sixties, that starstruck Age of Aquarius, when kindred souls united for peace, beauty, and rock and roll. As Hunter S. Thompson wrote, "You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right," and there was that "...sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave."

I've been remembering the beautiful wave lately. The idealism. The hope. The belief that there is more to life than collapsing in front of the television and microwaving hot dogs.

The belief that beauty- as Steve Jobs believed- is important, has value. That we are deeply interconnected. That life on Earth is precious- from the house sparrow to the living sea. That we are part of a vast and mysterious collective- not merely of our absurd egos (who natter inside our heads and squander our attention on drama, conflict, acquisition and the need to control)- but of a newly unfolding awareness of astonishing inner space and outer space. Infinity in every direction. The Universe is far more capacious than we ever dreamed. Perhaps even multi-dimensional. A Multiverse.

Which begs the question.

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Gluten-Free Apple Cake Muffins

A tender and light apple cake muffin. Gluten and dairy free.

Apple Cake Inspired

Before we get to muffins, I have a game for you. Created spontaneously one night, after some dizzying Facebook scrolling (when did Facebook become one endless stream of bumper stickers?). Pardon my yawning.

I think I'll call this amusement... The Dating Game. Here's how it hatched over crudities and hummus.

"I wish I knew you in high school," I tell my husband. This is not news to him, by the way. It's a popular topic lately, now that I am in my second adolescence, eighteen years past mid-life.

I sketch for him a vivid narrative of study hall humiliations and spikes of burning shame, waving a carrot stick in his direction, just for emphasis. I search for words to depict how it feels when a snickering quarterback punches your clutch of school books with his fists, sending you to your knees in a crowded hallway to rescue the sprawl of English homework, algebra and biology books that emit the faint smell of ink and gum.

He sighs audibly. He hates to hear these stories.

"I would have played you my Tommy album," I say. "I would have cooked you brown rice and tamari. We would have talked about books. Siddhartha. On the Road. Women in Love."

He smiles and adds, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

We toast Hunter Thompson with our mineral water.

"You wouldn't have liked me in high school," he says.

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New Quinoa Bars Recipe - Blondie Style

Our new favorite quinoa bar with almond meal, lots of good vanilla and dark chocolate chips.

The turn of the year's wheel inevitably stirs up ghosts. Last night we walked after dinner. Slowly, in a warm breeze, curled paper leaves scuttling the uneven side walk. Something in the air reminded me of New Mexico. And I remembered a day we drove to Taos, just to get out of our heads and escape the particular tunneling isolation of the writing life.

The afternoon was golden and soft, almost balmy. The kind of day that lulls you into believing winter is still far off. The trickster wind spun burnished leaves and pinon smoke around us with fingers warm and cool and so dreamy we almost floated along the crooked streets of Taos center, bumping elbows with straggling tourists in beaded earrings and adobe hued scarves, and locals in scuffed cowboy boots barking Spanish into cell phones.

We wandered through empty galleries and a well-stocked kitchen store. I fingered a set of engraved silver measuring spoons, but put them back on the shelf (too expensive to justify). Steve ordered a cappuccino to go, and we drove home along the Rio Grande listening to Steve Earle and watching the late afternoon sun dart down the canyon walls, back-lighting the almost bare cottonwoods, grayish brown and silver.

It was good to get away that day, get out of my head.

That night I dreamed of Russell Crowe. He was close by that month, filming 3:10 To Yuma up in Abiquiu. I read in my journal that we spoke about our fathers. He listened with his eyes, I wrote, grasping the loss of never knowing my father with a depth and muscle that held my pain fiercely.

This morning I woke feeling less heavy, and relieved of my usual L.A. bruxism. For the first time in a long time I felt the urge to pick up a paintbrush. To smooth a raw canvas with palms, flat and expectant.

Soon.

But in the meantime, I wait.

To wait, to surrender to this thing, this process, this road home to myself- it's not an easy thing. But if you offered me a pill to swallow, some cure, some promise, some magic, I doubt I would be tempted. Because there is a part of me- some stubborn, rusty, ancient part of me- that understands I must go through it, not around it. I must go down. Not up in a flight of fancy. I must get muddy and singed and hollow and exhausted.

I must tunnel through and scrape away with the tiniest of tools- my will- toward some small, shy truth. Excavating, digging past the illusions, the denial, the desire to please, to be light, to be pretty, to be approved of.

Authenticity.

It is my Holiest Grail. And why it is so hard to find it, I don't know.

For some of us, it just is.


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Gluten-Free Apple Crisp from a Gluten-Free Goddess

The best gluten-free apple crisp I've made. In this lifetime anyway.

I've been pondering identity lately. As in, am I the I writing this as Gluten-Free Goddess--- or am I a word-free, less defined kind of I that isn't actually I at all, but merely a spark in the collective energy source that is the great Mystery? Or Universe. Or Divine. Or whatever conceptual nomenclature you prefer.

Am I my thinking mind- or am I more of an essence, what we call soul, a truth beyond the assumed collection of thought patterns, personality traits, and personal history framed by a set of beliefs and separation known as the ego?

I do know I am not my disease.

One of the reasons I chose not to use the word celiac in my blog title was for just this very reason. I do not define myself as a celiac. In an identity sense. Yes, it says so on my medical records somewhere (in full disclosure, I think it actually says "possible sprue, resolved by the patient going gluten-free" because I couldn't afford an endoscopy). But I do not identify with my disease. That would be identifying with my gastro-functional limitations.

Hello, my name is Karina. And I have screwed up villi.

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Gluten-Free Turkey Meatloaf with Sun-dried Tomatoes and Pecan Crust

Gluten-free turkey meatloaf with sun-dried tomatoes and pecan crust.

A Turn Toward the New

The morning was cool and bright. It was going to be one of those quintessential Cape Cod autumn days. A day tourists swoon over. Worthy of a post card with The weather is sublime- wish you were here scrawled in black gel cursive between sips of a Hot Chocolate Sparrow latte. The sky was a cake bowl of cobalt blue with that particular pink edge to it that only painters notice, the blush that softened the tree line at the north end of the West Barnstable marsh gentling the heavy greens of the pines and oaks into a bluish, almost violet gray.

She brushed her teeth with fennel toothpaste and spit into the low slung sink, pausing to breathe. A long inhale to slow her heart. The cottage was pin drop quiet. The boys had climbed the rubber lined steps into the school bus hours ago, peanut butter and honey sandwiches bagged, milk money in their pockets. She had waved from the street and watched them navigate the bus aisle in shadow, avoiding her maternal gaze, not turning to wave back. Too risky, she understood.

The walk back up the curve of road to the rental she had found last spring felt different this morning. Not because of the air and its September clarity that sharpened the asters and the Queen Anne's Lace with impossible precision- though she felt a kinship with the acute focus the turning of the seasons always brings. That sense of realignment, a perennial return to purpose. Ironically, she always felt as if fall was the season of new beginnings. Not spring.

Fall was the season she woke up, as if from a dream.

Today was the first day of a plein air painting workshop. A post-divorce return to premarital roots, when she painted for the love of it- not the pragmatic bill-paying need of it. Painting for an income (however necessary it may be) is dangerous business. Courting the marketplace changes your work. A self consciousness slithers in and infiltrates your choices. The observer becomes observed. Judged. Rewarded for meeting expectations.

She had always been more than willing to please. To notice the cues and needs of others. It was more than habit. It was ingrained in her bones. She had an uncanny knack for it. And she hated it about herself. She hated her automatic willingness to anticipate and acquiesce. Sometimes she would hear her own words hang in the air and for a quantum, split second wonder who had just spoken. There were entire days lost to living outside herself, hovering above her left shoulder, just beyond reach.

Stepping into the tiny sunlit kitchen she stood still for a moment, tempted by the cluttered breakfast table. The sticky bowls and spoons. The allure of distraction. The comfort of routine. But it didn't take. She snatched her car keys off a hook and grabbed a canvas bag of painting gear by the door, turned the knob with her free hand and opened it wide. Three minutes later she made a right at the empty bus stop, and accelerated east down Old King's Highway.

To be continued...


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