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Showing posts from 2017

Cooking With Spelt.

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I try and eat as healthily as I can, for a given value of 'Oh for God's sake!' when the gluten-free, sugar-free, yeast-free, vegan, lactose-free (and sometimes even raw) effort collapses in the dish either before, during or after cooking or dehydrating. I will point out here that I am not vegan nor vegetarian so you will be facing bacon on this blog.

Like now.

This is a quiche made with with spelt flour. I love cooking with spelt and it tastes delicious and this turned out pretty well

It's a half-and-half quiche in that the left-hand side has cow cheese and the right-hand side has goat cheese. Luckily I only have slight intolerances so I can do that sort of thing — and it helps my husband who is an old-fashioned bloke when it comes to food and who finds quinoia, dehydrated kale and such stuff scarier than spiders in the bath.*

I also make wraps with just spelt, seasoning and a little water, flatten them with my bare hands and dry fry and they are just gorgeous.

Recipe:

30…

Time For Some Not Fake Food.

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I want to introduce you to my 2014 Christmas cake. This is the cake that started it.
As you can see, it’s a mess.
At the time of making it, I was coping with a serious diagnosis, the first sessions of treatment and was feeling sick, discouraged and as weak as a kitten. But I ‘had’ to make a Christmas cake because I always have made one. Buying one or doing without was out of the question, despite my husband’s entreaties not to be an idiot. It was crazy; I admit it. But I simply had to make the cake. Slowly and with many stops to rest, I managed to bake the cake, ice it and, as I was carrying it to the storeroom, in its tin, I lost my balance and fell. The tin stayed shut but the cake was shattered. As you can imagine, I was desperately upset. And then, as I tried to patch the shattered cake back together—while pushing away two beagles who wanted to help clear it up with great enthusiasm— my first tears of frustration stopped and I began to laugh. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I pat…
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For the Love of Dog© Maggy Whitehouse 2016.
Chapter One. I am 39 years old and I am out of nice. I have done nice all of my life. I have been an angel. I have looked on the bright side. I have compromised and helped. I have done pathetic. I have done the tears. But I ran out of nice about six weeks ago. It’s gone, vanished, simply disappeared. I don’t know where it went and, of course, as I don’t have it any more, I don’t give a toss about losing it. It’s quite comforting really. Not in a nice way, obviously. It’s simply different. There is not a cell in my body which has not felt the pendulum swing. That is why I am currently holding up a queue of perfectly pleasant people at Heathrow airport and refusing to get on an aeroplane. Yes, they are going to miss their take-off slot; yes, they are all going to be inconvenienced and yes, quite a few people are getting seriously irritated. But they cannot go without me without even a further delay because my luggage is on board. What is not on boar…