Pumpkin Polenta Recipe with Tomatillo-Avocado Salsa

My inspiration this week- pumpkin polenta with salsa fresca.

Time Travel

It's been a hot dry week here in Studio City. Windy. Dusty. With mercury rising into the 90's thanks to the annual Santa Ana winds. Fire weather. The polar opposite of the fallish, foggy mornings I just experienced back east on my trip to New England. We stayed in Great Barrington for four burnished days of autumn's last gold, catching the Berkshires at the tail end of my favorite season. More on the trip itself (and why we went there), soon.

In the meantime, I'll share a comfort food recipe from the archive- a creamy pumpkin polenta I cooked up while living in West Hollywood. So climb into my time machine.

Notes From WeHo: Comfort food weather has WeHo citizens ditching their flip-flops and plucking pumpkin colored sweaters off hangers, while tucking umbrellas into faux leather satchels. If you can find the dang umbrella, that is. It's got to be around here somewhere, right? You used it last year.

Maybe.

Or was that the year before? The harvest moon is playing tricks with your memory again. The crows outside in the oak trees caw like the crows in tomorrow's dream. Days turn into weeks and lunch turns into next month's breakfast. Hours spill through worm holes of time like so many episodes of Lost.

And the Buddha imagines the universe. And gets it close to right. We're talking atoms, people. Particles of teeny tiny specks of even tinier teenier fragments of a single point of something so small the naked eye perceives it as invisible.

I ponder this as I walk in a stream of brittle bronze leaves.

The succession of days that adds up to a life is only a blink. The moment when you started reading this sentence is already the past. You think about this stuff as you get older. When you squint into your future you see a shorter slope than the path that winds behind you. It can cause a slippery sense of vertigo. A tipping sideways melancholy that infuses every lost opportunity with meaning, bittersweet.

I walk to the market past ninety-pound skateboarders and a gaggle of thin actors smoking outside the Lee Strasberg Institute. I weave through Russian speaking men with impossibly sad eyes and impeccably groomed wheat-blonde women carrying shopping bags of kale. I smile at my neighbor sitting on his front wall listening to Miles Davis on a transistor radio. Great music, I tell him, feeling myself altering my cadence to the beat. It's JAZZ, Baby! he shouts, laughing as I pass by. I feel his joy in my chest. And I know he is exactly right. This whole life thing? This whole circuitous method of survival called living?

It's jazz, Baby.

And you just gotta go with it.


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Gluten-Free Pumpkin Donuts

Tender and light, gluten-free pumpkin donuts, darling.

Pumpkin Crazy

You might think I'm on a pumpkin bender, glancing through recent recipes here on Gluten-Free Goddess®. And you'd be right. I do this. Every October. I go on one long, crazy, pumpkin love affair. I am head-over-heels nuts about it. Because pumpkin is magic. In fact, if pumpkin was in a fairy tale, it would be the Fairy Godmother- not the humble buggy. It makes gluten-free baking transform, you see, as if touched by a star-tipped sparkling wand.

That's why I knew I had to tackle pumpkin donuts. Because donuts can be tough to replicate gluten-free. But I knew pumpkin would bring me luck, and sprinkle good fortune on my baking endeavors today. So, yes. I am pumpkin crazy. Crazy in love.

And you know what?

If pumpkin be the food of love, play on.

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Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies- Thanksgiving recipes

Gluten-free pumpkin chocolate chip cookies with a secret ingredient.

Reprising this autumn-inspired cookie recipe from the 2010 archives, because so many of you are new to gluten-free baking - and may have missed it!

Fall usually stirs my culinary imagination to conjure seasonal soup recipes and Crock Pot comfort food. The key word here is usually. Historically. As in, what I've done before, come the Autumn Equinox. This time around the season's wheel, however, my restless spirit has been wandering far and wide and away from dreams of butternut chili and baked rice casseroles toward the tempting, sweeter things in life.

As in cookies.

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Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Cookies - New Recipe

How do I say this? These new chocolate chip cookies are the best.

There are stirrings afoot here at Casa Allrich. Our gypsy boot heels are itching to wander yet again. Tugging at the threads of our daydreams. Stirring up old ghosts like some October trickster wind. Frayed old dreams folded neatly away and tucked quietly behind the stack of responsibility are getting aired out with a vengeance and enlivening discussions once again. That trip to the Cape got us thinking.

But before I speak too soon, there are chocolate chip cookies to ponder.

The subject of cookies is a favorite topic on Gluten-Free Goddess, and for good reason. I've written about cookies before- in posts too numerous to count.

So why are these different?

Why are these chocolate chip cookies blog worthy?

I will tell you darling.

Because they are golden and gently crisp on the outside, and soft and chewy within. Like the cookie you remember- that gorgeous, sweet caramel bite of homemade love. Warm from the oven these taste remarkable like the classic Toll House cookie recipe I baked a thousand times.

I credit the new flours and fat I used.

Gone is the brown rice flour. Gone is shortening. I've nixed the tapioca starch. And the result is a truly wonderful, soft dough that tastes closer to a real Toll House cookie than any other gluten-free chocolate chip cookies (though delicious!) I've baked.

So while we here at Casa Allrich discuss our future plans to ramble, bake up a batch of these- for your own road not taken.


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Gluten-Free Pumpkin Streusel Muffins

My new pumpkin muffin recipe- with streusel topping.

This isn't a Halloween post. Or a Thanksgiving post. Technically. Though Thanksgiving is just a stone's throw away- if you somehow conjure a metaphorical stone to metaphorically hurl into the time-space continuum, piercing the veil of eight and a half weeks that blows by in a singular exhale, surely faster than light. And this exhale, it was only following a previous breath- a breath I took yesterday- which turns out to be one year ago. A year since that Pumpkin Praline Pie I baked. I have a hard time wrapping my brain around this.

This is a post about time.

Some days I feel as if I am slave to the calendar, an unwitting cog in the wheel of the year with Sundays and holidays appointed by proxy, designated by some superior force that rules my random wandering nature with an unforgiving fist, demanding obedience. Charting the course of my life.

Then I remember the truth.

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Autumnal Gifts - and favorite pumpkin recipes

A new friend, gentlewoman farmer Catherine, with eggs from hens Fiona, Molly and Mona.

The bittersweet, textured beauty of Autumn has always gripped my heartstrings, pulling me in deeper, connecting with some invisible part of me, so much more so than Spring. Much more so than summer's flirtatious pleasures. And Winter, well. She is a dark and icy mistress. That relationship has always been complicated. So unlike my truly, madly deeply love of Fall.

And here am I. In L.A... Where Fall is just a pumpkin spice latte.

Los Angeles is without an Autumn. I know apologists who claim there is seasonal change (deciduous leaves do transform here- from dry green to crispy brown, sometime before Thanksgiving). But there is no Yankee eruption of brilliance- no reds, golds and coppery oranges. There is no softened, morning skyline heavy with balsam scented mist. Ardent Angelenos do not seem to bristle with three digit heat in October (it was 106ºF yesterday). They do not seem to crave L.L. Bean flannel shirts and cotton turtlenecks, like I do. Flip flops and tank tops are year round fashion choices. Along with hair dye, tanning lotions and injectables that promise eternal Spring. Los Angeles is a town of perpetual 21. In platform heels.

There are weeks (months?) on end I do not see a single woman sporting natural gray hair like mine. Never mind a natural neck- or- well. You know. That's another story. You get the picture. Not only do I feel invisible in sexualized So-Cal culture, I feel irrelevant, and bored. Restless. And unconnected. Year-round summer feels shockingly dull. Artificial. And uninspiring.

So I took my husband on a trip.

We spent a week on Cape Cod (my old stomping grounds, for decades). And I ate up every minute with a spoon. I spent entire days outside, wandering, hiking, drinking in the sea air, the peace and solitude, the creativity of the community (artists and writers, gardeners, crafters, gentlewomen farmers and furniture makers). Strong, independent women with silver streaked hair, and natural beauty that had never known a dermatologist's needle. Women not focused on a mirror. But focused on their curiosity. On creating something with their hands. Their spirit. It was grounding. And enlightening.

And it felt like home.

New Englander Ralph Waldo Emerson said, What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.

Not to wax too geo-pious, but New England does infuse your blood by birth. It roots you to its culture, its distinct sensibility. Its Yankee eye for simple elegance. An appreciation for patina. For thoughtfulness.

For me, my rural New England beginning fostered a life-long love of books. Music. Antiques. Landscape painting. Simple nourishing food. Walking in the woods. Quiet rather than noise.

Show rather than tell.


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