lemon bars, sweet

I remember waiting, smelling the hot butter smell coming from the oven and the discipline of waiting for them to cool in the fridge. I remember the sun and the light breezes and the comfort of familiarity. I remember laughing at powdered-sugar mustaches, of breathing in with deep anticipation only to cough on the light sweet dust. I remember always forgetting to hold my breath on the first bite.

Now I can't have the powdered sugar, but as soon as I tasted this recipe, I didn't want to ever go back. Not only do they have the same balance of sweet and tart, butter and custard, but they also showcase a clarity of citrus flavor that many other lemon bars lack.

LEMON BARS 

Adapted from "Paleo Cooking from Elana's Pantry" by Elana Amsterdam 

Makes 12 bars 

Preheat oven to 350 F. 

Grease an 8x8 dish with coconut oil and dust with almond flour. 

CRUST 

1 1/2 c blanched almond flour (optional: half almond meal) 

1/4 t sea salt 

Combine in a large bowl. 

4 T coconut oil, melted (optional: half or all butter) 

Whisk into dry until thoroughly combined. 

Press into the prepared dish. 

Bake until lightly golden, 5-8 minutes while mixing filling. 

FILLING 

Zest of one lemon 

1/2 c fresh squeezed lemon juice 

1/4 c coconut oil, room temp 

1/4 c honey 

3 large eggs 

Put in a blender. 

Process until smooth. 

Remove crust from oven and immediately pour in the topping. 

Bake 10-12 minutes until the topping is golden. 

Let cool in the baking dish for 30 minutes, then put in fridge for 2 hours to set. 

Cut into bars and serve. 

eucalyptus groves

The trees here. So many of them are old and creaky, frozen in their wind-blown shapes, leaning away from the wind with their branches yet still firm in their roots.

 

I especially love the eucalyptus groves. Those in the middle grow straight and wheat-like while those on the edges have a few branches raised against the wind as if they've thrown up their hands to protect their faces from the salt air.

 

 

Standing amongst them, their scent settles down over you in the softest way -- almost ephemeral -- but it keeps coming down and down, settling around your neck.

 

And oh the bark on these trees. Much like birch, it flakes off in elegant, papery swaths. The new bark revealed underneath is soft and smooth, pulled taught against the trunk. It creates a visual depth. All I want to do is run my fingers through it like hair at the nape of someone's neck. The illusion breaks as soon as you touch it, but it is beautiful all the same.

 

 

The eucalyptus stands here are on the Monarch Butterfly's route. When they're traveling, the beauty of the grove turns delicate as thousands of butterfly wings are added to the twirling leaves and pealing bark. Everything flutters and tree blends with wing and pretty soon you're struck with the vast number of creatures. At first glance all appears brown with only flashing sparks of orange until you look carefully and see clumps of butterflies hanging off one another in great pillars because there isn't enough branch to go around.

 

 

So often returning to childhood memories I find that the world has shrunk. What was a great, unreachable buttress is only a short twisted tree. The miles on miles of concrete sidewalk leading to the elusive stop-sign corner isn't even a block. But those trees. Those trees are still just as ethereal... just as rooted in the sky. 

san simeon

Standing in the little parking lot near the San Simeon post office, hardly the size of a postage stamp itself, the soft scent of the eucalyptus wafts around you and Hearst Castle appears far off on the hills.

 

Strong memories seep out of that pavement -- ornate, cold marble floors and passageways in the castle, a long-held obsession with palm trees because they meant California and California still meant home, the red licorice whip granddad bought me when he got rich, molasses black.

 

 

The one room school house, still standing, isn't empty. It doesn't house classes or books, but the swallow nests fill the eaves as the birds fly helter shelter in their distinctive swoops.

 

As the sun set, their shadows darted back and forth over the long grass and white wooden walls.

 

strawberry jam



Many of my childhood memories of my grandparents center around breakfast; sitting in a high-backed wooden chair with my feet dangling above the ground,my grandfather puttering around the kitchen cutting fresh fruit and toasting sourdough to perfection, my grandmother sitting and eating with us. Fresh jam and real butter and all wrapped up in family. Not to mention the promised excitement of the tide pools later.

Since switching to the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, I have missed jam. I am well aware that it is very easy to make jam SCD compliant and that it is my own fault that I haven't ever gotten around to doing it. At various times I have used the excuse of not having enough fruit, at others it's because I don't have the time.

Well, neither of those are true right now and my grandmother took advantage of that and made us some glorious strawberry jam. The lemon juice in it gives it the perfect zing and keeps the berries from being too sweet.

We first ate some with the toasted no-fall bread. As soon as we tasted it, we were over the moon. Neither of us have gotten to eat jam or toast for over a year now and the joy of both at once was delightful.

HONEY-SWEETENED STRAWBERRY JAM

Grandma's

Makes 1-2 cups

2 lbs (6 1/2 c smashed) rinsed, dried, and hulled sweet strawberries

3 T honey

1/2 t butter

3 t lime/lemon zest

1/4 c freshly squeezed lime/lemon juice

Place in a 2 1/2-3 quart ceramic/glass dish.

Allow to stand until juices form, about 30 minutes.

MICROWAVE

Cook uncovered on high power until it starts to boil (about 6-8 minutes).

Stir and continue cooking, stirring every 2-3 minutes until it has cooked a total of about 15 minutes.

Spoon out 1 T into a cup and cool in the freezer 5-7 minutes or in the fridge 15 minutes.

Test consistency.

If you would like it thicker, reheat jam to boiling, boil 2 minutes, then test consistency again.

STOVE TOP

Place in a sauce pan and bring to a boil.

Stir it as it boils until it has been cooking 15 minutes altogether.

Spoon out 1 T into a cup and cool in the freezer 5-7 minutes or in the fridge 15 minutes.

Test consistency.

If you would like it thicker, reheat jam to boiling, boil 2 minutes, then test consistency again.

the ocean's still in my psyche

I can hear it out the window and feel it in the air.  So many memories come flooding back from simply getting my toes in the sand or watching the water change color as it tumbles over itself onto the beach.

Ran to the beach and down the curve of the sand to where the water was too close to the shore to go on. As I sat on a rock and rubbed the sand off my feet to put my socks back on, I thought of time after time that my mother stood over us with a towel to rub the sand off our bodies and out of our hair. How we complained and ran away and how she always managed to catch us. The towel was a pink, faded from deep red. 

Our skin glowed once the sand was off, glowing with the abrasion and the warmth of the sun leaking out of us as we sat in the cool of the house with the lights dim.

 

the smell of lemons

There was a lemon tree at the side of the little tan house without stairs.

The day we left that house mother took my hand and said "Look at this. Smell this. Remember this."

I stood, the prickly grass sticking up between my toes. I felt the sun fall between my shoulders, watched the crowded waxy leaves curl around the white pickets on our side, smelled the blossoms and peels wrap around my head, and tasted the dirt-dust flicked up by the stems as mother picked the larger ones I could not reach.

I remember every time I press in my thumb nail and hold the porous skin under my nose.

raisins for tea

Sitting in the grocery cart, I reach the little red and yellow box to my mother. She has the power to rip the glue seal without tearing the sides. My fingers are the perfect size to pick individual raisins out of the little cake that has formed. I decide I'm going to look like the young, sun-glowing woman on the container.

...

 

I become disenchanted with the fruits as I find that, yet again, they took the place of chocolate chips.

 

...

 

My college roommate comes back home from Walmart with a tub. The same woman looks out of her dark curls. When some are offered, I give in to nostalgia and nibble the cake away. I can feel the cold metal grid at the tips of my fingers, the air flowing through, and my mother close by. 

 

...

 

Walking in an unfamiliar city grocery store, I keep running into unfamiliar names: coriander  courgette, and crisps. A green package catches my eye. It sports familiar words among so many that have to be translated: "California Raisins." Snatching them up, I can feel them sticking together under the plastic. Making excuses for the cost, I place them into the metal grid of my basket.

 

...

 

Sitting on my bed, I reach for the saucer with my tea and a pile of raisins. Such a simple thing becomes a great luxury this many miles from home.