chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies

I don't love talking about politics, not here or anywhere else. I also don't love valentine's day. But I think, considering everything that's going on right now, that it's a bit hard to miss the irony. I walked into the store the other day and looked at the news stand at the front. The newspapers, headlines to the back page, filled with hate. Hate from the people for a campaign that's built on it; the words of its supporters. People killed, families torn apart. The shelf next to the papers, the valentine's cards. The pinks and reds and roses, telling husbands and wives and friends you love them.

I don't propose we all start to love everyone, because we don't all live in some fair trade commune in southern Philadelphia. Maybe we need to rethink about how we think about love. Perhaps it's been over complicated. Perhaps we should just dumb it down to acceptance and quiet respect. Not even acceptance, just tolerance. That there will be people who don't want to celebrate valentine's day. That there'll be girls who want to show off their hair and others who'd prefer to keep it covered. That there are happy families with parents who never married and content kids with parents who married in a church. That there are some guys that love toting guns and driving tractors and there are some who curate art and live in lofts with exposed brick.

Maybe it's because we're actually scared. Maybe have good reason to be. Maybe we're not as accepting as we thought we were. Maybe it's because fewer and fewer families are actually composed of a mother, a father, two kids, a dog, a suburban detached house with a double garage and a toyota. Maybe the acceptance of change is on the outside. Maybe we did it because it's the cool thing to do, to feign openness; maybe it became trendy. Maybe, deep down, we cling to tradition. The tradition that love is romance, or perhaps duty to care. For soul mates, your children, a sibling. Maybe it's what we were taught. We grew up watching TV shows were people give each other candy hearts and pink cards and wait breathlessly for the popular boy to ask them to the dance. But maybe things have changed. Maybe now there are people getting hurt, pushed aside, loosing opportunities. And there's no moral high ground. You know how you read everywhere, every day, that we can't go on eating processed wheat and sugar because it's just not modern? Not sustainable. Not healthy. People have seemed very happy to jump off the ship of what health food once was, into a very stormy sea and onto a very shaky lifeboat that is what eating well has now become. In the same way, maybe love as it once was isn't sustainable, healthy or modern. Would we abandon our ship of chocolates and slinky black dresses and acceptance being cool? Watch the sinking of the concept with which we're comfortable? People will moan that we have jumped ship and that I said it myself. That we're not all married in churches anymore, we're ok that some people don't marry at all, some of us are hipsters these days. But love was simply supposed to keep people afloat, stop them from getting hurt, stop the coldness. Whatever we've done, then, is far from love.

On the one hand we've hijacked the concept. Not just that it's cool to claim tolerance. The number of bloggers and social media people who sign off with a 'love you friends'. People ask you in class whether you know the funny guy, and you're supposed to say 'him? I love him! he's so funny'. We're supposed to love our friends, right? So is this our broader, trendy definition? If it is, why I am I so put off by saying that I 'love' the neighbours? They're fine, but to say I love them would be going a bit far. Because, like everything else, we've taken love out of context sometimes, when kicking the tradition is cool and ok, detached. On the internet, it goes out to too many people to really think about. The funny guy? He'll never find out you said that.

Your friends? Well, maybe, you love them in a way. If love can encompass actual, quiet tolerance of individual quirks, warmth and acceptance, then it's there. Acceptance of differences and that you'll never see some things the same way, that your values and priorities might even clash. Maybe it's just not been something people think about. That love could be much simpler than the marriage-or-not debate, than a cold analysis of the number of broken families, and a whole lot more simple than dinner dates and bouquets. More rational than trying to make acceptance the new in thing. Maybe it could just be letting people walk down the street without feeling unsafe; or being able to take public transport without funny stares or being asked where you're from. Maybe we do love our friends because we put up with all their eccentricities, like we do our own family. Tolerance for differences has always been there, as part of love, in our living with kids and siblings and soul mates. Maybe we can stretch that out a bit - just the tolerance, to all the people around us. The hate has evolved, maybe it's time that love does too. It's not love as we know it. But then it's not just candy hearts and popular boys and the world as they said it was, either.

But there are cookies and there will be cookies as long as I'm around :) since I posted the house loaf cake a few weeks ago, I now present the house cookie. I pretty much sum up its amazingess in the recipe header but seriously. So good. Rye flour isn't bitter as you may have thought, it's actually quite mild if used with sweet, rich goodies (cherries, hi) and the cocoa really highlights the beautiful colour. The little flecks of oatmeal add some chunky texture and the cherries are so moist and sweet. They'll be a bit more puck-like than regular cookies because of the oil but still. So good. To share, on Valentine's Day. Whether with your little loved crowd or a bigger crew. treat yourself. Big hugs and cookies for you all xx

Ps. I would've made something for any doggie loves you have but Prune is meant to be on a diet (!!!!) so you could make these if you'd like, my monkeys are crazy about them.

[kindred-recipe id="2128" title="chocolate + cherry rye oatmeal cookies"]

Almond - vanilla bean layer cake with raspberry preserves

It was my sister's birthday last week. 21. It's been strange because it's her last one at home, the last in a chapter. As the younger sibling I think you watch the older one near the end of the last page. You see that for them home slowly becomes - claustrophobic, heavy, too small. There's a sudden shift and they're ready for new cities, big adventures, different people. And maybe that's what you wonder the most. You wonder what more they're going to learn, where they're going to go, and with whom they're going to do it all.

Layla, remember that pink bedroom in the house on Burlingham Drive? Our first 'big girl' bedroom. We spent hours trawling the paint aisles of the hardware store with dad, looking for that shade of pink. We had those 3 lamps above the bed, the heart, the moon and the star. There were the paintings - ponies for you, piggies for me. Frames on the walls, with our drawings. We'd sit on the blonde wood floor and you'd teach me to draw people, all with crazy curls and round noses. There was our huge bookshelf and we'd sit cocooned in quilts in the bed on dark November evenings and you'd read me a book. I could read fine by then, but you could read better, and you'd read me the longer books, I liked to listen to your voice. There'd be a glow from those three lamps, hazy twilight outside. We'd play in the garden too, on those cold but crisp autumn days, in our corner sandwiched between the red brick walls of the house and the wooden fencing over which the holly grew. You taught me to spot the footprints of different animals in the mud; the night time cats and morning robins, you'd seen it on a wildlife program. We'd go out into our street, the quiet cul-de-sac, where our house was next to the little woods full of holly and big trees. Sometimes there were horses in the field that bordered the forest. You showed me how to climb the five bar gate to be right up close to the horses and taught me how to hold the sugar cubes so that only his velvety muzzle would touch my palm. In a way I'm not that surprised you want to be a teacher, you've always been teaching someone.

Do you remember how we used to take those trips back to Holland, on the ferry? And how at first it ways always dad who mum sent to take us out on deck, or to see the magic show, or wherever. But there came a time when it was just us. I remember us standing, totally windswept, on the deck; that was when we were older, once we'd moved out of the pink bedroom. The last few years in Malaysia, when we started to wish that we'd each had a non-pink room of our own. I was still a childish ten year old wearing sports shorts and Nike t-shirts but you'd somehow moved on to dark jeans and beaded sandals. You went to your first non-pool party, at the Hard Rock Hotel, in the evening. I remember thinking you looked so grown up . I'm not sure whether or not you wore eyeliner because you're lucky with those big dark eyes but I just thought you looked so fancy, I wanted to be like you. On that ferry, too, I wished that I could be like you, I was lost on that big ship, but you could somehow steer us back to the table where mum and dad were sitting. We went to the shiny duty free shop, you gave me sunglasses to try and you told me which ones you and your friends were wearing. We were looking at the maps of Europe and you knew where we'd be going, you told me places that we'd maybe go when we were older.

I caught up somewhere. Do you remember that cross country race - the home race, on a blistering hot Belgian summer's day? When for the first time, I left you behind, because I could go and you couldn't. I felt like I cheated you. You were the older one, always forging the path for me. But sometimes we stumble on the path; it was your turn to stumble and mine to overtake. I was suddenly more like you. It was me who was showing you the joys of shopping at Urban Outfitters, it was me who had tumblr and suddenly it was me who was calling the shots between us. Not as well as you did, but I figured it out.

Remember Latitude last summer? How we were the only ones at that boho festival not in hipster shorts and Docs? And then how we managed to lose the car and wander around in those hot fields all afternoon. People looked us at oddly, in our presentable sweaters and me with my camera. I'll always think of us, the warm sun, zipping through golden wheat and bucolic Suffolk countryside. Next somehow you brought us back from Newmarket, after midnight. Your first time driving on a proper motorway, the roads pitch black and only a few trucks for company. How during the concert we'd stood in a quiet corner of the stands watching the revellers go wild; how someone threw champagne over us and the crowd in general so the two good clean kids we are could drive home reeking of booze anyway. How we sang to old hits from circa 2013 and started a little rave of our own in the front seats of your Mini.

It's the countdown now. It's gone scarily fast, no? Maybe you feel like you're standing on that shaky bridge between curious excitement and the unknown. I'm supposed to be the younger one so I can't say much to help you. There'll be a new page, shiny cities, different people. But in your growing, you've done a lot of it before. The winning, the losing, the raves, the love, the loss, the teaching, the learning. You'll finish it with others but you won't forget, will you, that you did it first with me?

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.” - Anais Nin

Happy birthday Layla, this year is yours xx

Layla didn't want a big celebration for her birthday. Just our mum, us, and the doggies. What Layla had asked me for, was a cake. Something like the fairy cakes of childhood birthdays - typically a simple, soft vanilla sponge, a layer of jam for the sandwich, and a vanilla frosting. Layla can be sensitive to gluten so I set about making a gluten free, whole grain version of a super airy sponge cake, which isn't so easy considering whole grain cakes tend to lean towards the 'hearty' side, and gluten free cakes are usually loaded with starches that aren't great either. So, almond meal! Almond meal cakes are often seen as the 'healthy' variety because they're grain free but tbh that's weird because most recipes then call for 5-7 eggs (!!!!!) and a few sticks of butter... does that sound very healthy to you? Anyway, to combat the dryness I just use yogurt, revelation. And 2 eggs which find themselves separated; beating the egg whites to firm peaks means the cakes turn out super light, airy and fairy-like. The cake is actually very simple to make - the instructions are very long because I give a lot of detail for beating egg whites, in case you've not done it before, I do it often because it's fun for pancakes etc. so I thought I'd help the newbies out, just skim over it, and the assembly part too if you make fancy cakes often (also because I'm a pretty rubbish cake decorator. no patience). to bore you further, I wanted a simple & light but not coconut-based frosting, hence ricotta cheese which is very mild and cheese-sensitive types usually take it fine, but feel free to use something diary free if that's an issue for you. Last thing - I almost broke a cake taking it out of the pan, so let them cool for a bit because they're fragile. and then freeze them before you decorate to stop crumb problems. and use two pans exactly the same size, so unlike me, you do not have to go at them with a knife (which is why they look uneven in the photos, yours will be fine). Also, do use vanilla beans - I know they're not cheap but worth it for the beautiful flecks and the smell. Oh and you can also totally use a good, natural sort of store-bought jam/preserves (and any flavor you like) if making it yourself seems OTT. Only the best for my sistah though. Ok I know you didn't come here for me to talk and talk, so here's to little layer cakes and big birthdays.

[kindred-recipe id="2091" title="Almond – vanilla bean layer cake with raspberry preserves"]

the birthday girl

blackberry & ginger spelt scones with honey (dairy free)

I have a feeling that if I just started writing about my life in this space that my very, very small band of readers would desert me, like I desert me when I start writing randomly about my life. Or if I just started a post talking on and on about the recipe to maximise search engine hits by chucking in the key words 3000 times. Scone scone scone scone. They try for subtlety which makes things worse , because once you've read the recipe title three times in the main body, it's a bit hard to miss it. Then I don't need a discussion about how 'every one needs another chocolate chip cookie recipe' or a novel as to how the first time they used too much leavening. Or their justification for making and eating a whole tray of brownies. 'I'm just listening to my body', they say. Go for it! I tell them, but I'm not listening. Anyway. If it ever becomes any of those here; if I bore you with an in depth discussion of spelt flour or I start giving reasons for the extra bar of chocolate that ended up in my green salad just let me know, ok?

Which group do I fall into? I just write... what's in my head, I guess. And it looks like my head is a very chaotic place. I've kept journals all my life. I used to write two pages a day, now it's come down to one every other day, if I remember. But sometimes the writing cleans things up. It's like taking a charger or a cable out of a cupboard and detangling it, in the mess there's purpose and clarity. My blog is a bit of a journal, which is why it's such a jumble.

Do you ever just look at the sky? Perhaps it depends on where you live. Maybe you look out to sea? I used to, when we first moved to Norfolk and we stayed by the beach. I could stand for ages on the cliff, in the wind, Prune girl sitting beside me. The sea was often gray, there'd be a halo of light in a slim parting of clouds, North Sea trawlers patrolling the horizon. But we moved inland, into deep rural Norfolk where there is... fulfilling emptiness. So much of so little. All fields and skies. I can look up and I can look across. At the chimney smoke rising from farmhouses in the valley. At the gaunt bodies of the winter beech, at the shine of frost on fallow fields. When there aren't fields, when there isn't the ocean, there's always the sky, for space and perspective.

Because there are some thoughts that no amount of writing can ever untangle. They are so tightly coiled and knotted and messy and heavy. The fields and the sea are good but the sky is better because it's sometimes black and cold, sometimes blushing pink and powder blue. There are birds; the bass chorus of migrating geese, the sweet songs of blackbirds, the doves who are the delicate harp. Sure, the sky doesn't hold answers, it can't get into that tangle of thoughts but it's empty and there's space where that coil can straighten itself. People tell me that I can so clearly put into words what I'm thinking, which is sometimes true; I'd rather write to you to apologise or to say thanks, because what I can write is with more meaning than I could speak. But still I laugh because I wish that I could neatly organize what's in my head and write it all down. If only my thoughts were as simple as punctuated sentences. What I think is more like this post. An abstract mess. Sometimes the chaos is worse than other times and I tell myself to remember that the stars I'm seeing, they're no longer alive, and they're little puddles of light. Apparently there's hot blood flowing through me, so surely somewhere inside there's light.

I still haven't answered my own question. How do I write, what do I write about? My bed is under the big window of my tiny room and when I lie awake, thinking, I can see the stars. It's something for which I'm grateful. Till I moved here, to this tiny blip where the country meets the sea, I'd never seen so many. At night, here the sky is white, not black. If you look at one spot of darkness, a thousand more stars will emerge, some tiny, others huge. I've never really found any constellations, the stars seem scattered and oddly placed, perhaps confused. I miss them on cloudy nights when the skies seem quiet and dark, but so often the morning will dawn clear and a few odd specks will be there; three stars in a tidy row, aligned with the moon. I write because maybe it'll straighten out those thoughts, they'll align, and light up the darkest patches of my head.

As I said in the first paragraph I'm actually really sorry that I can't seem to construe a normal post. Like just something down to earth and chatty, like other bloggers... but literally if I was just writing about the day to day, it would be an expletive filled passage about university, so I'd rather leave you with some abstract stuff that you (and I) can spend the rest of the week deciphering. Scones with a side of rambling! Just what you asked for. Two options: cut out the rambles and skip down to the recipe which is pretty damn good, or check back here in 20 years time when I have some incredible career and some sort of mental clarity. Ok. So scones.I was looking through my (tiny) recipe archives and I saw only one scone recipe. Only one! And I love them so much. So I knooooow they're nothing like the real deal since they're practically dairy free and they're wheat free but that actually makes them much less high maintenance. Yogurt instead of butter means no need to keep them cold, and the low gluten of spelt flour means they stay very tender and crumbly without worrying about over working the dough. Putting all the berries in the middle may seem odd but stops them sticking to the baking sheet and burning, and the color and sweet jaminess is such a great surprise. And obviously blackberries + ginger + honey is an amazing combination of a fiery kick, tartness and gentle sweetness. Especially if you grate your finger on the microplane while handling the ginger! So don't do that ok it hurts. And blood etc. I was probably too busy thinking. Anyway these are really very simple so I really encourage you to try them, they'll make someone and yo'self really happy. Thanks for putting up with me! You guys are the best.

[kindred-recipe id="2059" title="blackberry-ginger spelt scones with honey"]

lemon-blueberry loaf

It was our dad who picked us up from Heathrow the other day after our trip. He was waiting in arrivals, a smiling face in the crowd. Two weeks ago he'd been there himself. His homecoming. In three days he would be back. His departure. It's odd, in families like ours, where people keep coming and going. In families which are absence and reunion. We flow like rivers. Rivers run dry, it's a reaction to absence. Slowly, rain trickles down and the level picks up. The currents move you along as usual. There's a reunion and your river is full.

You learn to pick it up where you left off. Changing seasons, hair cuts, height. The same jokes, the same fights, the same people. Absence. Maybe it taught me things. You learn to appreciate someone's presence - waking up in the morning and knowing everyone is home. Small things. Seeing the coffee cup on the sideboard and knowing that someone's already awake and pottering around. Getting back from a cold, wet walk with the dogs and finding the lights on, fresh towels hanging in the hallway and knowing that someone is home. If people were around all the time, wouldn't I grow complacent? I know I do, because in the short periods that dad's work has been more from home, I just sort of get... meh, too used to it in a way. I wonder what it's like for those who have grandparents living in the same town; or where normality is having all your people under the same roof, a dad who works the 9 to 5 at an office. It's just not - not a concept to me, for some of us jobs are in other places, there are dusty port cities all over the world, nucleated families who are together but apart. The absence puts the every day, the ebb and flow, into perspective. Time seems to tumble down a waterfall. From above, from the outside, it seems to be barely moving. But deep in the swell, when you're swept up in the currents, things go fast. There are whirlpools of thoughts, everyday events that you only recollect when the spinning has stopped and you're on the other side, sitting on the banks with everyone and you're looking back and thinking "I can't believe that much time has passed". Because the truth is that it will rain. And your river will rise. And you don't notice it rising because you're in the water and totally taken along by the flow.

The last time dad was visiting I was still practicing for my driving test. This time, last week, I drove him to our local train station with a full license. The sky was smooth and slick, cool, monochrome gray, like tiles in a Kinfolk kitchen. The radio raved about the 4cm snow expected overnight and worse ice. Howling wind through the ribs of trees over the Broadland marshes, the landscape in muted green and brown, fields fallow and hedgerows bare. Dad and I stood on the platform, the wind eating through our clothing, looking over the tracks into the distance. A long straight path. We talked, just like normal, as if we were like the three other passengers. Just off to the city for the afternoon. Not that my dad had three trains and two planes and twenty four hours of travel ahead of him. Alone. But we talked, about trains and wood working and the London Underground, as dads and daughters do on drafty rail platforms in January. The train arrived on time. "Go", my dad said to me as he moved towards the carriage. The little station was eerily quiet. Down a country track, in the middle of the Broads, a part of that muted landscape. There was an old rickety bridge, the rail house needed painting, there were a few arbitrary tracks leading to it from the fields. I wanted to wait. To watch him and the train leave. But he didn't like to see me stand there. He wanted to see me go home. Always his little girl. That was absence, somewhere he'd missed me swim out of the shallows and into the channel. "Go now" he said again. Our rivers, running dry. By tomorrow they'd start filling again.

I went. Over the wooden bridge and his train left. I turned back to watch it, from the bridge, I waved to him and waved to the retreating train as it cut through the murky browns and greens.

My car was one of the few parked in the pebbled lot, nestled in the brambles and the naked branches. I sat for a few minutes, door locked, and listened to a blackbird, remembering all the boring day to day questions I'd forgotten to ask my dad. Never mind, I thought, there's next time, and next time, it will be spring, our rivers will be full.

So here's a lemon blueberry loaf. And a funny story about how this was the first gluten free recipe I wrote myself, and how I miscalculated and forgot a cup of flour, but it still turned out ok, albeit after three days in the oven. What I'm trying to say is that if you'd like to start baking gluten free, this loaf is ahem very forgiving and you can't go wrong because I've remembered the cup of flour. I'm calling it the 'house loaf' because I think it's the most requested recipe of mine, and I know it may seem slightly odd to pair lemon and blueberry but it's seriously so addictive. A zesty, sunny shock of citrus from the lemon and a bright sweetness from blueberries. Not to mention the vitamin C and anti-oxidants that winter loves to sap. This loaf has a very light crumb with all the yogurt and is not overly sweet, more of a breakfast or snack loaf. To keep it simple I generally do a 1-1 rice flour oat flour mix, but I see more people concerned about trace levels of arsenic in brown rice - if that's you, I've tried a new option, it's in the recipe notes. Either way, I really hope you try this. The comfy sweater of loaf cakes. Sending lots of winter brightness your way. Happy weekend xx

[kindred-recipe id="2054" title="lemon-blueberry loaf"]

doggie oatmeal-ginger cookies

Pruney and Suzi, For years I tacked ' a dog' on to the end of my Christmas list. You two have been the best gifts I'll ever receive. Prune, you came just before my 13th birthday and Suzi just as I was taking some of the most important exams of my life. And you know my life can be crazy, full. School work, applications, work experience. The blog, editing photos, fitting in runs, more work. My world just seems to be spinning really fast, my seasons keep changing. But amid all of that crazy are you both. The real center of my universe.

What I won't do is say that because of you, every day feels like Christmas because that just wouldn't be real. But if Christmas is about goodness, light, and joy, then you two are Christmas. You two little monkeys light up my whole damn universe. Every. single. day.

I wanted to make my dogs a cookie, something a bit festive for when I am stuffing my face with gingerbread. Dogs can have ginger - in fact, it's often used as a natural way of easing travel sickness, so if you are planning on taking your dogs on any car trips these holidays, these cookies might be fun to take along. They are totally gluten free so they are a little fragile, but my two monsters have been pretty good at cleaning up any crumbs :) they also come together in one bowl, with really only one measuring utensil, because your dog isn't going to care whether you spent four hours making them or 20 minutes. mine always do know. though, that they are homemade. They were eaten in a ratio of 10:2 Prune:Suzi, hence the photo of Pruney doing what she does best.

[kindred-recipe id="1891" title="doggie oatmeal-ginger cookies"]

Gingerbread cookies

They asked me to be Mary. I think it came more down to the fact that I was one of the few dark- haired girls, but the others were jealous anyway. All I really had to do was sit on the stage in some kind of a gown, behind the 'manger' and rock the baby every now and then. The village school was a Church of England School (I only recently realized I spent two years of my life saying a prayer every morning, without having any idea of what I was saying. ah the innocence of primary school ) so the annual nativity play was quite a show, even more so when you're five years old.

Most winters in that part of Suffolk weren't too cold. Usually clear, bright winter sunshine, sharp wind off the North Sea, I managed in tights and black suede boots and somehow avoided wearing a winter hat. Still, I was a sickly kid, one of those who was perpetually out with an ear ache, a scary cough, on antibiotics, vaguely asthmatic. The year I was Mary it was a chest infection. I remember the burning pain, like my little ribs were a cage, a cage too small for the bird that was valiantly flapping its wings to escape. I coughed so hard my whole body shook, I couldn't leave my bed, my mum gave up going to work and read books with me, my dad stayed up all night watching The Wombles (does anyone else remember them?). This year it was a gray winter, there was no watery sunshine through milky clouds to dry out my damp lungs, that ever-present wind left people hurrying from house to car with scarves up to their ears, hands shoved deep in pockets.

Those low hanging gray clouds were like the feathers of the doves that sat on our fence, cooing softly, like snowfall on a slate roof. My dad would look up at the skies and say "snow skies", my chest would burn, I'd hope he was right, I wanted a white Christmas, I spent another December afternoon at the doctor's office and coughing myself to sleep.

The other girls were probably hoping that I'd be too sick to come in and play Mary. It was clear that I wouldn't be in the choir, singing Little Donkey and We Three Kings, but the teachers said I could just come in and sit on stage as planned. My grandparents plied me with marshmallows 'for strength', I wore the gown and sat behind the manger, the others sang about Bethlehem and yonder star. I wondered if it snowed there, if Mary had been able to cough on her donkey ride, whether yonder star was that brightness I saw from my bed when I lay awake at night, the white light that left little pools of silver in the puddles.

It started to snow. I was back to school by the last week of term. Forced to wear a hat and scarf. I wasn't happy because it's not the kind of thing that princesses wore and jeez mum I am a princess. It was just a light flurry, airy white flakes, like the dusting of flour on country bread. I was sitting by the window, they were playing Christmas songs, I was making an ornament out of dried pasta and silver spray paint, then a chubby fairy. By the time it was break, the snow was gone, but it was like a promise. The skies were still dove gray, small puddles on the ground were freezing, I could feel the burn through my jacket.

One morning it started in earnest. I dropped my cheese on toast to climb up onto the couch by my sister, to watch the fat flakes come down hard. It was like those American tv shows we watched, where they could build snowmen and throw snowballs. We went to school feeling light, cheery as the Christmas mantel. The adults murmured on the playground that we'd be home by lunch, the boiler was on its way out. Our dad came to pick us up and we told him our big plans. We needed a snowfort, to make snow angels, teach us how to throw a snowball. My mum provided the warm clothes and wrapped a woolly, musty scarf around my neck, gave dad explicit instructions that I wasn't to get wet.

The doves sat on the roof of the garage and watched us. We built the world's smallest snow fort. My dad taught us tactical snowball warfare, involving sneaking up on the opponent from behind the shed. The snow was too shallow for snow angels, it wasn't cold enough for the snowman to last. But the magic was there. My mum wrapped me in fleeces and flannel, we turned on the little gas fireplace in the living room. I sat in that old blue chair and the Christmas tree's lights flickered, mellow, in the corner. It was simple, I was warm, I was wrapped in the quilt of a quiet and gentle childhood, the doves were my friends, at night I could watch the stars, my sister lay in the bed beside mine, my parents were in the room next door.

After we left England Christmas was never really the same. We started to travel, we were out in the bush over Christmas more often that not, the lights and trees and bells loose their sparkle. But sometimes I'm taken back to that living room, the Tweety blanket over my lap, red Ikea couches. Doves on the swing-set in the garden, the smell of ginger and cinnamon from the little Dutch pepernoten cookies, the refrain of Little Donkey forever engrained somewhere in the back of my mind.

Little Donkey, carry Mary, safely on her way, they said.

It was those little pepernoten cookies that inspired my gingerbread. I've never made gingerbread cookies before but I was curious to try because of their bold spices; the flavours of whole grain flours and unrefined sugar would only make them better. And molasses, obviously. I specify this directly in the ingredients list but there are a few options for flours. I'd planned on tried & trusted spelt flour but then some einkorn flour I'd ordered arrived and I couldn't resist. Einkorn in also an unrefined whole grain, similar to spelt it is an ancient relative of wheat (apparently the oldest strain of wheat) but is low in gluten, higher in protein than wheat and is a source of iron and vitamin B, which is quite special for a flour that's very easy to use. It's similar also to kamut, which would work here, but I understand that spelt it easier to find (I know this would not be of interest to everyone, but for other whole-grain obsessives out there). Even easier to find is whole wheat flour, which will probably work too - you may just need to add a couple of teaspoons of water to the dough if it's very dry. I just hope this gives you a way to have homemade & whole grain gingerbread this Christmas. And I want you to have the best holiday season ever. Laugh a lot, eat lots of good food and keep fingers crossed for snow. Big hugs xx

[kindred-recipe id="1879" title="whole grain, coconut oil gingerbread cookies"]

PS. I have a really fun mini-post that should come out on Friday. Pup friendly ginger oatmeal cookies, so no family member is left out of the fun this christmas. Keep an eye out for a newsletter! Also I'm leaving for our trip to India tomorrow, so the next post will be scheduled, but I'll be back with something special before Christmas. Gingerbread shall grace the subcontinent and a long haul flight.

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cardamom + pistachio layer cake

I had every intention of writing this really long, heartfelt post and I actually started it. Then I thought about whose day I was celebrating and I went back and deleted it all, because that really isn't mum's thing. For her birthday, every year, I'll go into the card store and look up and down the mother's birthday card section, picking them up, grimacing, putting them down. She's not really the one for cute rabbits; not for the low-brow jokes about getting older, never in a million years would I send her a note about 'putting your feet up". Last year, I settled on a card with a toaster on the front that read 'Mum - you're the best thing since sliced bread'.

Is it weird that bread reminds me of her? Bread. There's comfort in a sliced loaf, something familiar. In that every piece, whatever the kind, whether it's dark and seeded or white and airy, it's kind of known. And that's what Mum is like. No matter where I am, where we are, what I ask, she stays the same. Sure, we all have off days, but somehow she manages to push that off-ness away, so that she can always do what's best for me. There's something unselfish about a slice of bread. Bread tastes good on it's own, it's a vehicle for sweet jam, or you can get a nourishing meal out of it when the loaf is wholemeal spelt. She is the most generous person I know. Generous is an under statement, I sometimes wonder if she knows how to think about herself. She'll go in the car for hours, driving unknown darkened highways in February sleet when buses leave us at airports. She's sat in the freezing car while we're at the gym, she has a long commute every day since she wanted us to reach school in half an hour. I always thank her, when she does something, but it's like thanking your piece of toast. You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth. The toast will never reply, but with Mum, the words are just inadequate.

When we fight, I cry, she hates it. Most of the time I'm not even upset because I care so much about what a actually led to the fight, but more because I hate the fight in the first place. She says everything because she knows it's the best for me. I wonder where she can find it - find the energy, the brain capacity to keep us all afloat. Every morning, she remembers things. Call your insurance, I've left money on the desk, don't forget a house key, I've called a taxi, there's stuff in the wash, but leave it, I'll sort it when I'm home. One breath. As I've grown up I've come to roll my eyes at that stereotypic 'super-mum' (super-mom?) image that's drawn everywhere. Why do they have to be yoga teachers wearing leggings, sipping kombucha in Venice Beach, while completing the school run and loading three washes? Or otherwise do they have to be single mothers who've adopted three abused kids and now have started a charity? Or must they wear power suits and killer heels, and have men shaking at board meetings? Why can't we just acknowledge those that are like my mum? They're the ones who make the world go round. No killer heels (anymore. I've seen her wedding photos) and god forbid the leggings and green juice. But here's the kid who's never gone to school without a cooked breakfast, never been the only one without a certain brand, been the only one to eat a homemade sandwich at lunch. And she never complained, never asked for the board room or the board walk, she ate her toast, fed us ours, we've laughed a lot.

She often thinks she's made mistakes as a parent, which I guess all mothers do. I'll never agree with her. I am my own person as much as I am hers. If she hadn't been the person who she is, we'd all have been left without a lifeline. The anchor of the rocky family ship; the lighthouse showing us where to go, the winds that pushed us in the right decision, the sails that drove us there. The captain, but also the navigator, probably feeling like the deckhand and the lookout. I'll never be able to thank her enough. What's a baguette without the seeds? Happy birthday Mum.

So yesterday was my mum's birthday. I think everyone struggles to find the right words and the right gifts for their mothers... you know them so well but in a way you wonder what they really need because they never say! I figured mine needed cake, so I put a few of her favourite things together and then this beauty emerged. There's a subtle exotic hint from nutmeg and cardamom, deepened by toasted pistachio. A combination of almond meal and brown rice flour keep the cake really light and with great structure for a gluten free cake. The frosting isn't very sweet, and if you're suspicious, doesn't taste overly coconutty at all. A little tropical, but pleasantly light and sticky, it's not the very thick type so doesn't distract from cake loveliness. It's a very simple but special cake, which I think is the way my mum would like it. I know she would've been happy with a wheat floury, butter filled cake, or none at all, but this is one of the few ways I can give to her, so there you have it. Hope you find a reason to make this one soon, it's not overly festive, but wouldn't be out of place on a holiday table. Enjoy the lights and cheer. Hugs xo

[kindred-recipe id="1816" title="cardamom + pistachio cake"]

ps. welcome to nutmeg and pear, shutterberry's new home. the change may seem strange and the URL possibly stranger, but I just thought that the focus of my blog had shifted from where I originally thought it would be, and that kind of feeling only comes with time. thanks for following along to the new site, I don't tend to commit to much, so let's see how this one goes! hopefully I'll update my 'about' page to explain the new URL a bit. I am in process of updating all the links, some may still lead to shutterberry, where I've set up a redirect.

pear-cocoa muffins with a walnut crumb

"L'hiver", he said to me. "Il fait froid". I had a working understanding of French, I understood more than I could speak. Winter, he'd said, it's cold. And it was bitter, Belgium was snowed in. The flakes had fallen, thick and hard for the past few days, it was Friday afternoon. Our first snow day. I think we almost died when we heard school was cancelled. Our bedroom was the loft room so the sloped windows were blacked out and the garden had become - just white, like Jack Frost had been visiting. The skeletal ribs of trees were lightly dusted, the whole garden looked soft and downy, it was magic. There was a sweet hush, a feeling of coziness, that the neighborhood was under a soft quilt.

Our house was on top of a small hill, the driveway was at least 250m long and very steep. Since school was cancelled anyway, we persuaded our dad not to start shovelling - we were going sledding. We didn't have those nice wooden sleds, rather these plastic things, almost like saucers, that you just sat on, pushed off, curled your legs under and hoped for the best. They made for a pretty exhilarating ride and pretty wet clothes. So we spent the next few hours happily running up the driveway, finding new and more perilous ways to 'ride' those sleds.

Our neighbors were an elderly couple who lived at the bottom of that hill. Number 6 was a charming white cottage, mint green shutters, a small wooden deck, a row of tidy trees. They kept two sheep in their hilly garden, a few greenhouses and all winter I'd watch the smoke rise from their chimney, smell the veggie soup. They often spoke in Dutch with my dad, I knew they were nice people, but I was a shy 12 year old who didn't speak much of the language, I'd offer a wave and a smile when we passed them. The man's name was Frans and he'd come out along his snowy driveway to check his mailbox, which is where my sister and I crash landed every time our sleds brought us down. I knew he spoke both French and Dutch and under pressure to say something, I think I mumbled 'bonjour', he'd said hello, big smiles, weather talk for the 2 kids who enlivened the neighborhood. I think he was happy, to see us scrambling around in the snow, the town was aging, we brought with us the shrieks of laughter and spontaneous joy that add something to a white Christmas. After that he'd often wave, and we started to bring Therese and Frans muffins. Nothing fancy, maybe banana, blueberry if we were feeling creative, just a friendly neighbor thing.

In their garden they grew beautiful fruits and vegetables in weathered glasshouses. the vines were heavy with purple grapes, green stalks slumped under the weight of tomatoes and zucchini in summer, when they'd bring the overflow of their produce. Quiet, hardworking people who'd toiled away for years, actually living for a while in what became our house while they worked to build their own. They'd made something out of that small, hilly patch of land.

I grew up fast in those years. Snow went from being a fun novelty to an added chore, 4am we'd be out in -15 degrees darkness, listening to the tune of a Siberian wind that ate through our ski jackets. The charm quickly faded, and so did Frans. Dementia gets the best of them. It was fast, sudden, bitter, like a cold snap. My first funeral, gray February, dark spirits, black clothes, stone village church. He'd written us a letter, probably one of the last he wrote, he thanked us for the muffins, said he remembered us. Therese would visit him at the care home often, and we'd go down to the cottage, with muffins. To share with Frans, we'd say. And he remembered us as the two girls with the snow and the hill, the sleds. That winter had been years ago, I was way too cool to play in the snow, I preferred to clear it, salt it, watch it melt. I wondered what Frans would think, the melting snow made me think of childhood, giving way under the grit that life throws at it.

Till the day we left Belgium we went to see Therese. We branched out from muffins to tea - Therese loved tea, we'd buy it whenever we went anywhere new. Peppermint tea from Tanzania, earl grey from England, Darjeeling from India all passed through the doorway of that stone cottage. We'd talk about frans sometimes (my Dutch had improved to monosyllables at this point. It's not so hard to say 'ja' is it?) and she'd always say, whenever she brought the muffins and said it was from the snow girls, his face would light up, like that weak winter sun.

I have a little folder in my desk drawer. A few birthday cards from my sister, some from my grandparents and my dad. The rest are letters from Therese. She writes in her spidery script, I write back in my broken Dutch. If there was one person who I wish could see this blog, it's her. It doesn't snow much here, but when it does, I think of that house, when they were both there, the smell of a wood fire and the small figure of Frans, fetching logs, him raising a pale hand in greeting. Bittersweet, just like the winter.

And if there was one person who'd love these muffins it would be Frans. A gluten and dairy free, honey-ish muffin with a walnut streusel is sort of a far cry from those muffs but hey, proof of my improvement as a baker. This recipe makes quite a few muffs, but it's that giving season. You could give some away - maybe you know an elderly neighbor who's spending their first Christmas alone? Or there's the Amazon delivery guy who brings you a parcel at 9pm on a freezing Friday night when you're sitting in front of a fire feeling smug/snug. Or you could freeze some, or just eat them, they're mostly fruit, if you need persuasion. If you don't want/need them gluten free, I've added a spelt flour variation in the notes under the recipe. Chocolate, pears and substitutions? I spoil you. The crazy starts now, you ready? Wishing you a warm + cozy festive season, give a lot if you can, stock up on salt. Jeez I'm a cynic. Go string up your lights, this grinch did plans to do sothis weekend! Hugs guys xo

[kindred-recipe id="1763" title="pear-cocoa muffins with a walnut crumb"]

I have some great stuff planned for the holiday season + festive baking, so don't forget you can subscribe for carols everything straight to your inbox :)

(chocolate chunk) almond butter blondies

It was their time maybe 11pm; our time 4:30am. We'd been up all night revelling under blue lights, watching James Bond fall off trains on someone else's screen, drinking orange juice that was more concentrate than anything else. We were so tired we could barely stand, pale faced, red eyed, static hair. We sat on the back seat of that airport transfer bus and we couldn't stop laughing, neither my sister nor I can remember what it was, but it was that strange buzzy euphoria. A heady cocktail of jetlag, stale air, tingling excitement. Traveller's high.

Midnight in Mumbai. There is something about that subcontinent that is - addictive. The most powerful feeling is the one after you get off that long flight, you test those jelly legs again, onto the dingy carpeted shoot. It hits you in a wave of warm night air. Suddenly you're no longer half conscious but fully present, you've joined the one billion who call this place home. The runway is darkened and you can see over the high airport walls and into the shanty towns adjacent where life rolls on. It's black out but there's an assault of colour, activity. Girls in cheery saris fetching water from wells, garish plastic buckets in hand; boys wear spin-off Sahara cricket shirts and ride bikes; a cow under the yellow glow of a streetlight. The baggage handlers and ground staff sleep on the carts, piles of leather flip flops lining the concrete. It's the same as years ago, when we used to visit, we sit in the domestic terminal waiting for another flight. We sit with the priests in white robes, faces dotted in sandalwood; with the MacBook-toting businessmen back from the States, with the extended families complete with four generations all dressed for a wedding. Sleep, my mum tells us. How can we, when we're in the one city that never does?

How is it that my earliest memories of travels are flecked with the incessant ringing of Nokia mobiles? Of the sweet Air India air hostesses who'd pinch my cheeks and give my sister and I extra yogurt? Of straining my neck on cold airport benches, watching a shop assistant eat a chapati out of a polystyrene container? How is it that the country manages to get itself so deeply under your skin?

India often comes up in conversation. The good, the bad, the ugly. I talk about the good, talk about the bad, drift off by the ugly. Drift to the place where life never stops moving, where the country is a living breathing organ, each jammed road a pulsing vein. Thousands of cells in each fancy high rise, each concrete village house, each intricate temple. What's the greatest problem for India, people ask me, hearing I've lived there. The corruption? The poverty? Neither, I think. It's greatest problem is that you keep going back. Once you try it the first time, you need that high, the buzz that comes from walking off the plane into a hot night. Of taxis that drive into the central reservation, of painted cows and painted trucks. Where people throw color at you and bless their new cars, where they drown their gods and celebrate light . It's been 3 years, it's time for a hit. 5 weeks and I'll be back, back for my fix. Once India's in your blood, you just can't get it out.

Yes, 5 weeks till the Christmas break and our trip to India for 3 weeks of sun! Also, the irony, I know, writing about India and then making blondies. Probably should've been a post about Stockholm or something. Anyways, blondies are, um, blonde brownies. The almond butter in this recipe makes all the difference to using something like coconut oil: in the toffee color and the fudginess of the squares. (Fun fact: did you know that the fats found in nuts and similar foods - the 'healthy' fats - help balance blood sugar?) Light muscovado sugar also adds to the toffee-effect but if you can't find it, you can use an equal amount of brown sugar instead. They surprisingly hold up well for being gluten-free, so I may freeze the rest for our trip. If they last that long, 'cause these suddenly looked a lot more fun than kale and eggs for dinner Hope that an adventure is on the cards for you and blondies either way. Big hugs xo

[kindred-recipe id="1684" title="(chocolate chunk) almond butter blondies"]

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apple + hazelnut oaties

"go build your bridges", my mum wrote to me in an email recently. there's a bridge quite near where we live, across the region where two rivers meet. the traffic is usually moving slow, you have plenty of time to look around. on one side you look towards the town, it's one of the worst in the area, there are small houses that are black from the constant car fumes and there are only a few old barges anchored to a rotting metal quay. On the other side you look towards the heart of the Norfolk broads - flat and green, the river snaking through in a blue gray ribbon. the water's dotted with white sails, an occasional mill stands guard over a meander. the bridge itself is nothing special. some kind of vaguely brutalist structure with a bit of bauhaus, a white arch, metal suspenders, the kind that opens when big boats pass through. but we put a lot into each bridge we build. the bricks of connection, the mortar of motivation.

some bridges are just that. some kind of a structure to get us through something, a simple crossing over some difficult terrain. almost selfish really, you see your end destination, the bridge gets you there. you're on the other side at new pastures, you burn the bridge. but others - others grow. the bridge still gets you over something. but maybe rather than a stream, it's a bridge over a deep ravine, strong enough to hold a cargo train. solid suspenders, a tall structure, never failing. sometimes you build roads coming up to that bridge, maybe starting with gravel but you cross the bridge so many times you end up paving it. and you realise, hey, I'm spending so much time around this bridge I need a little town, a few more roads, you hang a few baskets of flowers on the bridge. then you have a choice. you keep the sturdy bridge, the support that's held you up, that's allowed you to reach the greener pastures on the other side, but that's always let you come home when you need it. you keep it, or you burn it.

I'm always burning bridges. often get as far as hanging the pretty flowers then one way or another, find a reason to light the match. when it's a bridge that connects two towns it's hard to choose one side, to watch it fall, so stand among the rubble, wonder whether you should put it back together. do you find that more and more your bridges never get that far? that you pour the diesel and light the match just after you build the structure - that you never really wanted the towns, you simply needed the bridge to get to the other side. you mow through your pasture, you build the next bridge, you burn it. the bridges I built and tried to keep when I was younger seem to give in to age. that the bridges I build now are built with the pure purpose of crossing over, finding something better, getting myself to greener pastures. We all do it. take on a job, cross over, find a better job, burn the bridge and leave it. we leave the rubble and pick up the next brick, find another place to put it down.

cookies could be pretty useful for building bridges and could make you feel a whole lot better after you've burnt one. and these little oaties are just so good! like oatmeal cookies, only better, full of chewy nutty bits, a little bit of apple-y texture and of course chunky oats. As I mention in the recipe notes, I used spelt flour but I'm sure that as a gluten free option almond meal will work with its high protein and absorbency. they'll make your whole kitchen smell amazing, so uplifting on these rainy days. I do apologize for the abundance of apple recipes but seasonal fruit is scarce in England now and I have a thing for baking with fruit... so you know where this is going. hope you all stay dry and that you'll a share cookie, whatever the state of your bridges. xo

[kindred-recipe id="1646" title="apple + hazelnut oaties"]

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spiced apple & buckwheat pancakes

I had some awareness of being there; but I wasn't totally present, hovering vaguely on the periphery of sleep. A mechanical throbbing in the background, the machine's heart beating; a rhythmic hum of the engines. A familiar scrambled sound. I felt the wheels retract somewhere beneath my seat and the aircraft started to, in my mind, tilt sideways. I drifted in and out of that darkened cabin feeling the static from the hand-out blanket, saw my mum rooting under seats to find our shoes. There were spots of rain on the windows, the sky was dove gray and people around me started to gather  bags and phones. Looking ahead to train rides, taxis, connecting flights. In my half slumber I moved as if in a dream, dimly following my sister and remembering how to place one foot after the other. Leaning on the cordons at immigration and seeing the officer look at me not with contempt, but at my chubby, sleepy seven-year-old face as if I was a creature under a microscope. I felt sorry for him.

Baggage carousel. Baggage trolley. Long waits. Bathroom visit. Take note of lost baggage counter, since you never know. Watch mum haul the bags off the belt. Help sister push trolley. Customs. Anything to declare? I wanted to say I was hungry because I'd slept through the flight's breakfast and I was tired because it was now something after midnight in Malaysia but I knew that most officials at Heathrow didn't have a great sense of humour. I was coming out of my sleepy haze, I hugged that same pink Ralph Lauren sweater to myself, shocked by the cold. Arrivals hall, couples embracing, taxi drivers standing with signs, people finding buses. Look for dad, where is he?But it wouldn't be like dad to stand at the front with four red balloons, instead I waited for the "boo" behind me, or the little "tssst" from a corner from the terminal. By now I was quicker and beat him to it as he came up to our jetlagged group of three, I was still small enough to really throw myself at him, for the dad hug. He'd be there in his good leather coat, brown shoes, old school Levis. Striped scarf knotted in that Continental way around his neck, a copy of The Times in one hand. He'd take the trolley and we'd wait, buffeted by wind in that dingy multi-story parking lot. The car would be ice cold. He'd put on the heating, there'd be snacks and our favorite kiddie magazines.

Our car would move out into the drizzle, the time of year in England when it started to get dark at 3pm. Traffic would be slow, out of Heathrow and onto the forever-jammed M25 eastbound, BBC Radio 2 was the soundtrack of those drives. I never knew (and still don't know) any of the songs, dad knew a few, mostly he and mum would talk softly, Layla slept beside me. I'd look at the people in other cars, hoping they were also going home, to meet family, to see their dad again maybe. I'd wonder about all the cars on the road. Who they were, where they were going, whether they were happy, maybe they had a wedding this weekend, maybe they were putting up their Christmas tree. I liked to watch the headlights and half close my eyes to see them blur in the speed, I'd watch dad indicate to switch lanes and overtake, he's one of those people who can just drive well. I learnt something about accelerating into a bend from him, he also taught me about lochs, tie-ropes, grain silos, how to unstick a jeep from the mud, a learnt love of pancakes. Sometimes if he'd been at the office in London and only been at our house a few days before we arrived we'd stop at a 24 hour grocery store to get our favorite food, he'd tell me to wear the coat he brought even though it was probably the one that was too small; I think in his mind I am always a bit smaller than I really am.

What is funny is that now it's me who is more in Europe, waiting for dad to come home from some warm and dusty place. I'll be keeping the house warm, trying to tidy away my piles of mess on the dining table since no one really sits there when he's not around. And then I'll wait for the car, he'll bring in his suitcase wearing a pair of old-school Levis and a good jacket, and I may stay really quiet when he comes in. Step out from the living room and say 'boo', because I've learnt a lot from him.

Pancakes are the dad thing, aren't they? And since he's going to be home for a while, I made a big batch of these to freeze so he can have a more interesting-than-toast breakfast while he's here. I know, I know, more apple, but these pancakes are actually good all year round! They're packed with goodness, from the apple, spices and buckwheat flour which makes them totally gluten free. Some people say that buckwheat flour has a very pronounced flavor but I think the spices tone it down in these pancakes, but you could always substitute 1/2 the flour with another gluten free flour (I'd recommend oat flour). Either way, I hope you try them. Surprise your dad.

Wishing you a lovely weekend, hopefully with pancakes.

(RUSTIC) SPICED APPLE & BUCKWHEAT PANCAKES // makes 6 smallish pancakes (serves 2 probably) // gluten + dairy free

this recipe doesn't make a huge stack of pancakes, but I'm pretty confident it will make the standard 12 if you double it exactly. also, the batter may initially look odd because it may look like there's way too much apple, but that's ok - use a big apple because that's what makes them poofy and almost custard-y inside. Just give them a little time before you flip them, even if it looks like the pancakes are getting a bit overdone - the fruit needs a bit of time to firm up or they'll get folded when flipped (they'll still taste amazing). If you do use melted coconut oil, try to use room temperature eggs and juice or it'll seize up.

1/2 cup (70g) buckwheat flour (or use 1/4 cup buckwheat and 1/4 cup flour of choice) pinch salt 1/2 tablespoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger 1/2 teaspoon baking powder 1/4 teaspoon baking soda 1 large, sweet apple 1/3 cup (80ml) natural apple juice 1 teaspoon melted coconut oil or olive oil 1 free range egg coconut oil, for cooking Pure maple syrup, honey, or similar for serving

-in a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder + soda, spices and salt, set aside -in a liquid measuring cup or bowl, add the apple juice. Coarsely grate the apple (peel is fine too) into this cup/bowl, big apple pieces are good. It will look like there's too much apple for the juice. -add the oil and egg, stir to thoroughly combine -use a spoon to form a little well in the dry ingredients, then add the apple + egg mix to dry and gently fold to just combine. You don't want to stir too much so that the leavening agents can do their thing. -let the batter rest for 5 minutes - you can heat up the pan while you wait. Turn the stove to medium and dip a paper towel in some coconut oil, then use it to brush a light layer of oil on the pan (or prepare the pan however works best for you, varies from pan to pan and cast iron skillets etc) -after the batter has rested, pour about 1/4 cup (4 tablespoons)onto the heated pan. I can usually only do one at a time (tiny pan problems), but fit however many little rounds you can without crowding. If necessary, draw the batter out into a little circle on the pan for a nicer shape (the grated apple can make them awkward) -the batter doesn't bubble too much on the pan, so after about 2 to 3 minutes, flip the pancake and cook another minute or so. it will be a deep brown on the first side, lighter on the other, but should be firm - serve warm with pure maple syrup (so good), honey or other sweetness of choice. enjoy. *to keep the pancakes warm while cooking all the batter, turn your oven on very low (around 120'C or 250'F) and keep the pancakes on a lined baking sheet inside. Alternatively, let them fully cool, then freeze them with with a layer of parchment paper between each pancake. To defrost them, you can pop them in a toaster for crispness or I've even heated them in a microwave and they taste great - oven or toaster oven would work too. ** one other note: I wouldn't recommend subbing in wheat flour of any kind since it's a lot more 'thirsty' than gluten free flours and the batter is not overly wet here. A gluten-free AP blend would work too. 

I make pancakes often, for more pancake recipes, subscribe to shutterberry so you don't miss them! Also I am on instagram pretty often these days, it's growing on me. What do you guys think of pinterest, do you use it much?