tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132945662009-11-24T16:32:19.996-08:00Stories of saying yes to life, gluten-free.Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.comBlogger514125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-78001225854670685272009-11-23T20:17:00.000-08:002009-11-24T08:44:29.304-08:00

I love making pie.There's no need to tell you more about this. I've written about pie so many times before on this site. Each year, I've created a pie crust that has come closer to my Platonic ideal of pie crust, the flaky butter wonder of a crust that holds pumpkin filling or summer blackberries or raspberries right off the vine. No one has complained. No one could tell these pies were

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-69662547237511125742009-11-20T12:20:00.000-08:002009-11-20T17:28:51.184-08:00

Baking gluten-free seems daunting at first, doesn't it?I had grown used to scoop and dump. Soften the butter, rip open the bag of white flour, turn on the KitchenAid. I barely had to think. My body remembered the movements of baking for me. Cookies came out crunchy and chewy, the wish come true, nearly every time. Baking, I knew.And then I had to give up gluten. As much as I embraced it, I didn't

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-68304867718690192332009-11-19T14:11:00.001-08:002009-11-19T23:30:06.585-08:00

There's a funny way of looking at food when you first find out you can't eat a certain one.I started dividing food into two categories: can and can't. I can eat roasted potatoes, Alaskan salmon, fresh quince, raspberry jam, teff porridge, and duck confit. I can't eat bread or pasta or pizza or pie made with wheat, rye, or barley, triticale, or spelt. But I can eat bread or pasta or pizza or pie I

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-56522489907575781492009-11-17T23:38:00.000-08:002009-11-19T10:10:22.602-08:00

I love a good roasted turkey, the skin crisp, the flesh juicy. Thanksgiving dinner doesn't start for me until I have stolen a piece of skin from the bird just out of the oven.For that reason, a dry turkey that flecks off the bone and makes me reach for the gravy boat is just plain depressing.(I'm not the only one who looks forward all year to that glorious turkey moment. Did you see Kim

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-6969605152799652102009-11-16T12:30:00.000-08:002009-11-16T12:46:02.950-08:00

A few days ago, we returned from California, put down our bags, and relaxed for a moment. Then, the thought struck me, as soon as I saw the date. Good god, it's almost Thanksgiving.Can someone explain to me how this happened?(Yeah, I know — that whole space-time continuum thing. I do know how a calendar works. But seriously, wasn't it just summer?)I love Thanksgiving. What other holiday centers

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-29334822755473736572009-11-08T17:07:00.000-08:002009-11-10T06:54:34.377-08:00

Gluten-Free Gingerbread, adapted from November 2009 issue of GourmetRain is hitting the windows on the door behind me so hard it sounds like little pellet guns full of pebbles are being fired at me. For days the wind has blown and blown, taking all the lovely yellow leaves with it. A few weeks ago, the heater was dusty in a corner of the room. Now, it's on nearly every evening.Time for

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-83013901256064140642009-11-03T13:28:00.000-08:002009-11-19T13:17:38.712-08:00

I imagine Portugal is warm most of the year. That's probably not true, and I'm worse in meteorology than I am in geography, so don't trust me. That's only how I imagine it.I imagine slowly sloping wooden boats docked alongside rocks in tiny towns with sun-washed houses perched on blue water. There are European-looking cathedrals, with worn walls and faded stones. Green fields are dotted with

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com92tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-51906189470820702422009-10-28T11:22:00.001-07:002009-10-28T16:10:55.199-07:00

The leaves on the tree outside this window are the sultry red that teenage girls dream of wearing on their lips when they are grown and sophisticated. (And then, if you're like me, you realize that this red looks garish on lips, and is certain to smudge off as fast as the leaves are falling right now.)Not only has Delicata squash arrived at the farm stands, but we almost have eaten our share. The

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-62075667322216879742009-10-27T18:49:00.000-07:002009-10-27T21:04:00.303-07:00

It has been a busy few weeks around here. Again.Last week, I was honored to be on KUOW's Weekday program, as part of a roundtable discussion about foodblogging, especially because I appeared with my dear friends Molly and Rebekah. If you click on that link, you can hear it (in podcast form, I think). And thank you to the many of you who called in with gluten-free questions! That was a lovely

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-81544881101211493272009-10-26T14:33:00.000-07:002009-10-27T10:21:32.759-07:00

In 1977, my 11-year-old self felt daring by staying up late for Saturday Night Live. Those were the best years, the Gilda Radner as Emily Litella saying "Never mind" years, the Wild and Crazy Guy when Steve Martin hosted years, the John Belushi as samurai guy years. You know, the funny years.For some reason, of all the brilliant sketches I watched in my pajamas in the den with the shag carpeting,

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com117tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-7882525126234750022009-10-23T10:31:00.000-07:002009-10-23T11:45:40.052-07:00

Have you noticed? The pumpkins waiting to be plucked from muddy fields, destined to perch on porch steps? Or the way the leaves have started to droop on the trees, even as they grow more vibrant? Or how woodsmoke curls through the air, rising toward the grey skies, as you drive by farms or houses with burn piles?It's fall.The change of seasons always feels like a time to step back and contemplate

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-82707194930681389462009-10-19T18:45:00.000-07:002009-10-19T21:39:33.170-07:00

Two autumns ago, when Danny was still working full-time as a chef, and we were still living in Seattle, I sat in a Starbucks in Madison Park, excited.Marcus Samuelsson would be there soon.His glorious cookbook, The Soul of a New Cuisine, had come out the year before, and we had been dog-earing pages and ogling photographs all that time. The paperback had been brought out by Starbucks, who

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com122tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-80023696689385043412009-10-16T19:05:00.000-07:002009-10-16T20:21:45.474-07:00

Last weekend, on the island, there was an apple cider festival.Of course, there was cider, pressed from island apples by island folks, by the glass, the jug, and the barrel. Sweet and mellow, with just a hint of tartness — the cider spoke of autumn.But the main event, in tents off the Saturday farmers' market, was the apple demonstration.70 different kinds of apples. 70! Heirlooms, common

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-32353346453446514722009-10-15T21:49:00.000-07:002009-10-16T07:24:27.564-07:00

Whenever I have felt just a mite constricted about being known as a "gluten-free blogger," instead of someone who loves food and the chance to write about it, I have tended to say, Yeah, like all people want is a gluten-free English muffin recipe. The rest doesn't matter. I don't know why I always chose this example. Maybe it's because I grew up eating Thomas English muffins, the flat discs that

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-54848365171134650602009-10-14T21:37:00.000-07:002009-10-14T22:12:40.550-07:00

So, it has been awhile since we put up a video here. We've been wanting to do one. Truly.But life just kept crowding in.No more. Here we go.Long ago, Danny and I did a photo post on how to chop an onion. A number of you have said how helpful that post was to you in the kitchen. (It was for me, too. I can't tell you how many times I sneaked back to that post to look at the photos before I chopped

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-37617236583010773702009-10-13T12:32:00.000-07:002009-10-14T23:26:06.669-07:00

Hey there.Some of you may be wondering — Shauna, didn't you just post last night? Why are you back, talking with us so soon?I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to be around here more often again.We're still in the middle of edits. Little Bean walks fast across the living room, straight toward the one dish cupboard we can't put baby locks on. We write another blog, three times a week, which

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-8620565596741870722009-10-12T13:12:00.001-07:002009-10-12T23:05:33.044-07:00

Fresh curry leaves. Pomegranate seeds. Turmeric that leaves little trails of neon-yellow dollops on saucers. Brown basmati rice. Fenugreek. Coconut milk-simmered chicken. Cardamom pods.These have been the flavors of our kitchen this week.What a feast it has been, thanks to Modern Spice.You see, Danny and I are still deep in the throes of final edits for the cookbook. We slip into working on our

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com136tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-54247458425192616512009-10-05T21:17:00.000-07:002009-10-06T17:14:06.692-07:00

I remember the feeling clearly.Newly diagnosed with celiac, I felt relieved that I had found the answer to what ailed my body. I felt determined to stick to this, to heal myself. I felt sort of giddy that I could grow well by eating good food, instead of enduring terrible treatments and a lifetime of drugs. Mostly, gratitude.But I also felt a certain sadness. This wasn't necessarily about the

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-55129652726557277582009-09-23T10:54:00.000-07:002009-09-24T00:19:41.428-07:00

This is my dear friend, Sharon. If you've been reading this site for awhile, you've seen her face, and heard her name, a number of times. In fact, a few times she has appeared with me at readings and bakery meet-ups for my book, and people come up to her and say, "Oh my god, you're Sharon!"She actually really loves this. So if you see her on the street, be sure to say hello.Sharon and I have been

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-7558470630080497732009-09-14T21:58:00.000-07:002009-09-14T23:23:54.688-07:00

When I was eight, I sat at the piano, my fingers arched like spiders' long legs above the keys, trying to hit all the notes correctly. For years I had asked for piano lessons, imagining the joy of sitting at the keyboard like Stevie Wonder, pounding away and bobbing my head. Instead, my teacher droned on about music theory before he ever let me touch the keys. And my fear of doing things

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-31201116912396977592009-09-10T21:36:00.000-07:002009-09-10T22:14:59.318-07:00

When I was in my first year of college, my best friend Sharon and I sat in my bedroom on a hot summer day and wrote letters to David Letterman. Not love letters, although we did adore him with a certain fervor. No, we wrote pithy messages, brief missives, hoping to make it onto the viewer mail segment.They were ridiculous, of course. "Dear Dave, it's 102° here today. What do we do?""Dear Dave,

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-75339751480779667702009-08-31T20:36:00.000-07:002009-09-01T06:18:51.454-07:00

A joyful noise, wonderful women and men both, the smells of plum chutney and lemon juice and blueberry jam in the air, corn being shucked on the porch, people canning tomatillos in turkey roasters with a propane tank, burnt sugar cake and head cheese and blackberry pie, people laughing and chatting and making new friends. It was a fine frenzy, to be sure. The first friends arrived about 10:15 in

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-14394849179368481482009-08-24T21:12:00.000-07:002009-08-25T14:29:23.325-07:00

A few times in your life, you have a meal so memorable that you know you'll be tasting it again, decades later.We know that when we are in our 80s, we will be discussing food on the front porch, our feet up on the railing as we talk about black truffle risotto in Gubbio, fresh oysters from Hogg Island, and peach crisp from our kitchen in August. And often, I imagine, we will circle back to the

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com75tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-12921573464862108612009-08-19T20:15:00.000-07:002009-08-21T15:14:07.644-07:00

You think you know someone and then he surprises you.For me, wishing to be married was like walking around thirsty all the time, and only getting gulps of lukewarm tap water once in awhile.Finding the guy I would marry was like a long cool drink, in fast slurps at first (with stops for a moment to pant), and then long slow sips, knowing the well wasn't going to run dry after all.Now, it feels

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13294566.post-10162837853857792262009-08-17T20:53:00.000-07:002009-08-18T10:26:01.298-07:00

Remember winter? When everything came in shades of grey? When the world felt silent, waiting, dormant beneath the earth? When nothing had a smell and we longed for something, anything to release its scent?Here is the color we longed for then. A rioutous shout of reds and yellows and greens. The slightly acidic tinge in the nose, a rich deep smell of sun and wind and life itself?I wait all year

Shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14391277093594410404noreply@blogger.com45