I have this fantasy about twins.  Yes, a twin fantasy.  Be forewarned… it’s racy.

It unfolds like so:  I stroll into a quaint North Carolinian bakery stocked with organic, gluten-free goodies.  One bite of a rapture-inducing raw cardamom almond biscotti sends me into a frenzied fervor.  Tickled by my outburst of admiration, owners Lori and Michelle ask me to taste test one of their latest creations they have yet to release to their bakery’s public.  It’s something too delicious for me even to imagine.  I happily agree and we bond over our love for dessert, everything green, skin care, fitness, and the magic of superfoods.  They say, “Desi, you are our long lost triplet!”  I casually (but happily) respond, “who would have known?!” (When, in fact, I’ve known since the day I discovered their blog.) Then we frolic and make raw dream cakes and lick the batter off of our spatulas and giggle.  There’s also some hugging.  And maybe friendship-necklace-making.

I warned you.

Saucy, unrefined, and obscenely raw.  I know.  I shouldn’t be having such thoughts.  But how can one resist this pair?

Not only do they dream up the most yummy recipes, but they write openly and honestly, a credit to their quality of character and their genuine desire to help people take better care of their bodies and well-beings.  In the cyber land of Pure2Raw, “pure” describes more than just their recipes and wholesome ingredients.  It encompasses their beautiful spirits.

I’ve been addicted to Lori and Michelle’s blog for too long not to celebrate it through my own words and pictures, so I’ve used this month’s Adopt A Gluten-Free Blogger, hosted by Sea at Book of Yum, to whip up one of their little delicacies, document it, and set it on my unsuspecting readers like a tastebud attack of joy.  Weapon of choice?  Coconut Lemon Bars.

I can confidently guarantee that if you follow their recipe exactly as I did, you may begin entertaining a certain twin fantasy of your own.

Don’t feel embarrassed.  It’s only natural.

Sometimes I think of myself more as an animal than a human being.  No particular animal.  It changes.  As a kid, a pair of tights on my head would instantly become floppy rabbit ears and a yard of toilet paper tucked into the back of my pants would transform me into a ferocious feline.  Though to the untrained eye, the first costume might suggest a half-committed bank robber, and the latter a victim of unfortunate restroom proceedings.  Nonetheless, I’ve always found it easier – even more natural – to just not be human sometimes.

In fact, I tend to see most beings beyond their mere species – or rather, I see in them all they are besides their obvious appearance.  Take my dog, Delilah, for example.  She is everything but a dog.  Seriously.  I never look at her and think, “dog.”  When she’s curled up into a tight ball in the corner of the couch?  Mouse.  When she lets out that strange bark as someone cautiously approaches the guarded pink chew toy in her mouth?  Chicken.  When she purrs and claws at me to continue rubbing her tummy within one second of stopping?  Lion cub.  When she prances through the living room as if springs are attached to the soles of her feet?  Deer.  When she is perched statuesquely with her front paws outstretched?  Sphinx.  Heck, Delilah even transcends the animal kingdom… I’ve been known to call her “Jumping Bean,” “Pumpernickel,” and “Stick of Butter.”  That’s besides the point.

Nothing has really changed since my youthful days of “playing pretend.”  I still tend to fold my knees into my chest and crouch atop a chair like a jaguar as I write at my desk.  I flow fluidly through sun salutations on my yoga mat to feed my addiction of feeling supported by all four limbs rather than just the boring two.  I collect and guard my nut stash more fanatically than a squirrel.  Maybe the most obvious of all my animalistic qualities: I migrate.  However, I don’t know if that makes me an African Swallow or a tumbleweed.  Do I actively decide to globe-trot as often as I do?  Or do I simply let the wind toss me, a rootless thing, around and about?  I don’t know.

I do know that I love it.  I love traveling.  I love the way in which it makes me feel impossibly both fearless and fearful at the exact same time.  With more of the unknown facing me, terror begins to nest and whisper in the corners of me, while the autonomy that accompanies the terror reminds me that I am the hero of my own story.

How often we forget that we are the protagonists of our own lives.

Once I’ve spent too much time stationary, the air begins to taste stale and I itch to meet my mysterious friend, The Unfamiliar, once again.  This time when we meet, it will be more terrifying and more fortifying than ever.  My destination will not be simply the other side of the country.  It will be the other side of the ocean.  I got a gig in London!  I could not be more excited.  Or scared.  Or breathlessly eager.  Or nervously timorous.  Mostly excited.

Now is probably one of those times when not being human would come in handy.  Animals don’t intellectualize or analyze.  Their minds do not entertain the “what ifs” or the “hows.”  They just do.  They just are.  They live.  They be.

I am going to London.  And I plan on leaving behind a piece of human.

Don’t worry, I’ll replace it with some hippogriff as soon as I step on UK soil.  And as a semi-hippogriff, it won’t be long before I stop “stepping” and start flying!  I wonder if coloring outside the lines of our humanness may mean overcoming our greatest limitation.  Hippogriff or not, what if we all can soar?

Our bodies are our own personal zoos.  Have you explored your own yet?

Toasty Sesame Chard

*I submitted this recipe to Diet, Dessert and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend

1 bunch Swiss Chard, Red Chard, or Rainbow Chard

2 Tbsp filtered water

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 clove garlic, minced

1-2 Tbsp sesame oil (I used cold-pressed and raw!)

Himalayan pink salt, to taste

Sesame seeds, for sprinkling

1) Chop chard, remove tough stems.

2) Place in sauce pan with water and garlic.  Heat over medium  heat, covered, just until the chard turns bright green and begins to wilt.

3) Stir in sesame oil, lemon juice, salt, and sesame seeds.  Be sure to coat leaves evenly.

4) Serve as a side dish, snack, or meal in itself!

We need to talk about chocolate.

The longest love affair I’ve had has been with chocolate.  I wonder if, as a toddler, I actually realized I loved those nice people taking care of me as solidly as I knew my taste buds loved the cacao bean.  What?  Relationships are complicated enough for a full-grown adult, let alone a toddler who doesn’t even have a grasp on language yet.  But chocolate?  You don’t need a language for chocolate.  There’s nothing cerebral about it.  It’s instant gratification.  Instant love.  I don’t think this is uncommon.  It is much more rare to despise chocolate than to love it, no?  To love chocolate so deeply is to count oneself in the majority.

However, how I eat chocolate?  There may be some discrepancies here.  So many people seem to take their good old time with it.  They buy a bar, break of a piece, let it melt in their mouth, maybe take another square, and then wrap up the rest for LATER.  Seriously?  In college, I would buy a Cadbury bar from CVS and bite into it as aggressively and passionately as one would a crisp apple.  Not sliced, skin on.  Not sliced… but yes, okay, wrapper off.

You know those Dove Chocolate commercials? The ones in which the girl takes a bite so small it probably requires her six bites total to eat one tiny square?  She always eats in slow motion.  What are the people in the chocolate business trying to tell us?  Eating in slow-mo somehow means you’re savoring this cocoa luxury more than you would if you ate it in real time?  Um, I disagree.  I savor my chocolate with the zeal of a lion taking down a zebra.  I think that means my love is true love.  It also means I could never be in a chocolate commercial.

The first time I tried this approach with a white chocolate Easter bunny, I think my teeth began to weep.  My taste buds might have begun having suicidal thoughts.  This wasn’t chocolate.  It was illegal amounts of cane sugar and milk parading as one of the world’s most beloved heroes.  I’ve never liked white chocolate.  In fact, I’ve never even tolerated white chocolate.

I know what you’re thinking.  It’s something along the lines of, “You chocolate racist.”  Rest assured: I’ve seen the light.  The white light.  No, not that white light; Trust me, I’ve learned that tunnel vision isn’t my cup of tea.

I’ve been converted: I love white chocolate.

It was not the instant gratification I spoke of before.  No instant love.  No love at first sight.  It was not flirting-turned-fervor in a romantic comedy sort of way.  It was not sentimental or stylized.

It was an odyssey.  Like building any relationship – romantic, platonic, or familial.  I think we fail to see that Love takes root everywhere in our lives.  It takes root between ourselves and the people to whom we show our soft underbellies.  It takes root just as equally between ourselves and the people to whom we do nothing more but offer a daily “hello.”

The concept of  having one day devoted to Love (and primarily only a certain type of love!) seems silly to me when the fabric of our every day is Love.  I guess it is much easier to forget and simply make one mid-February day our yearly alarm clock to remind us.  But what if we didn’t need a reminder?

How about making tomorrow morning the beginning of a lifetime rather than just the beginning of a day?  It could be the start of always taking time to notice the Love growing through the cracks of the sidewalk, and consciously choosing to help it flourish.

White Chocolate Hearts (without sugar!)

I know this probably goes without saying, but this white chocolate can be made into any shape, any time of year!  Try a white chocolate bar or white chocolate chips!

Also, you may want to make your hearts thinner than I did.  Not only did I make them a bit thick, but I went a little wild with the vanilla powder, meaning it all sunk to the bottom in the hardening process.  Don’t worry – this won’t happen to you.

*Note that I submitted this recipe to Diet, Dessert, and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend!

1/4 cup raw cacao/cocoa butter

1 tsp pure vanilla extract

1/8 tsp ground vanilla bean (optional – I like the look of vanilla flecks in my chocolate!)

3 Tbsp coconut flour

pinch himalayan pink salt

6-7 drops vanilla stevia (I can only attest to the deliciousness of NuNaturals Alcohol-Free Vanilla Stevia)

1) Place raw cacao butter in double boiler (or a homemade one – glass jar in a small sauce pan!)

2) Heat the water over medium heat so that the butter begins and continues to melt.  Simmer until fully melted.

3) Measure out 1/4 cup of the butter if you haven’t already done so.

4) Mix cacao butter with remaining ingredients in a mixing bowl.  It will look yellow – do not fear, it will lighten as it hardens.

5) Line a pan with wax paper, and place cookie cutters or chocolate molds on the wax paper.  Pour white chocolate into the cookie cutters or molds to desired thickness and then immediately put into freezer to avoid leaking!

6) Remove from freezer after at least 2 hours and DEMOLISH.

I have had enough dreams about my teeth falling out to recognize when I’m having one, as I am having it.  I had one such dream last night.  It was a doozy.  It involved a lot of blood, which is very uncommon among my fantastical tooth-losing adventures.  It also involved a cat, and somehow, the cat was directly correlated with the catastrophe happening in my mouth.  She was staring at me, her nose inches away from mine, and I was pulling teeth out of my mouth, strung together like candy necklaces.  Way too many teeth.  Way more teeth than I actually have.  The experience lacked any sense of pain whatsoever, nor did it affect my usually weak stomach even slightly.  In fact, it felt more like I was scooping the seeds out of pumpkin.  But the pumpkin was my mouth.

Are you throwing up right now?  Sorry about that.  I have heard that dreaming about any dental catastrophes – teeth falling out, crumbling, feeling loose – all boil down to the same issue: lack of or fear of lack of control.  About three minutes deep into it, my dream self thought, “Oh, right.  This is a dream.  Hm.  In what ways do I feel out of control in my life?”  I then realized I could probably do this soul searching while awake, without the Pearly Whites Parade marching past my lips, so I decided to wake up.  And I did.

What about the cat?  I don’t have a cat.  In fact, I’m not usually a fan of cats.  If there’s ever a question of cats vs. dogs, I will always choose dogs.  But this cat didn’t seem like just any cat.  She knew me.  There was someone behind those eyes that I recognized, and I can’t place who it was.  Any ideas what this could mean?

I could use some Jungian insight right about now.  It might help to know that I’ve found myself at a precipice in my life on which I never expected I’d be balancing.  Over the last month, I’ve had so many curveballs thrown at me that my body is black and blue.  I must confess this to be the reason why I haven’t written in over a month.

I apologize.

Rest assured: I’m back.  In truth, this little blog may benefit me more than ever at this point.  My love affair with food, my play time with words, and the warmth of your comments could very well be my power cord.

Please stay plugged in.

I’ll feed you if you do.

And I won’t tell you about any more gory nightmares.

Creamy Seaweed Salad

1 cup dried wakame

1/3 cup chopped scallions

1/2 cup chopped celery

3-4 Tbsp raw macadamia butter, cashew butter, or tahini

2 Tbsp coconut aminos

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/2 cup filtered water

sesame or hemp seeds for sprinkling (optional)

1) Place dried wakame in filtered water.  Mix until all pieces of wakame are wet.  Allow to sit in water for 5-10 minutes to absorb.

2) Add remaining ingredients.  Mix well.

3) Allow flavors to meld in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours.

Scott and I are out west again.  We can’t seem to stay away from the open road, the blanket sunsets, the landscape swirled with mountains like mounds of thick frosting.  We’ve now resumed our place on the Oregon Trail, after spending one heavenly week in Montana with Scott’s family.  I could not have asked Santa Claus for a better week.  Nor a better addition to the dear group I consider my own family.  The whole experience was infinitely greater than the sum of its parts, and that is exceptionally difficult to believe considering how exceptionally great the parts themselves were.  We skied in powdered sugar.  We lived in a beautiful, ski-to-the-door, rustic lodge featuring a kitchen with whom I wanted to have babies.  The golden-hearted Cath and Larry covered all resort expenses for everyone.  I cooked and fed homemade pumpkin curry to all.  We designated one certain morning as our own Christmas Day; Candace and Cynthia gave me a Cuisinart ice cream maker without even knowing it had stolen my heart months ago.  We slurped hot soup, bundled at the bottom of the slopes.  We collectively screamed and cursed as we ran barefoot on the snow-carpeted porch to the bone-melting Jacuzzi.  We choked with laughter for hours on end, playing games, swapping stories, filling seemingly insignificant moments with purpose.  The kindness I experienced was beyond anything I could have dreamt up.  As was the laughter.

The night we played Cranium, I found myself wishing the game would never end.  Abs sore and laugh lines engraved in my cheeks, I noshed on macadamia nuts, soaking in their flavor and all flavors surrounding me, believing life could not be better.  Then I had another thought.  Um, it was about food, of course:

Removing sugar from my diet has been the greatest kindness I’ve ever done for my taste buds.

Maybe I was simply drunk with joy, and everything tasted better in my drunken stupor.  But maybe not.  As each buttery nut passed my lips, it tasted different from the one that came before.  One would taste sweet and ripened like a fruit.  The next would meet my bite with a crisp snap and a salty kiss.  These macadamia nuts were completely raw, with no other ingredient added.  How was it possible for me to register so many contrasting flavors, to discern the slightest differences in each individual one?

It made me wonder if the American palate is normally so cluttered that we’ve become desensitized to true tastes.  Perhaps we’ve overwhelmed our taste buds with so much artificial flavoring, so many unpronounceable ingredients, so many laboratory-concocted, barely-edible Frankensteins that we’re missing out on the natural miracle of truly tasting our food.  Savoring what Nature has given us to eat.  And if our palates are so cluttered, what’s to stop us from assuming that everything else is as well?  Our minds?  Our lives?

I’ve been spending time uncovering what lies beneath the Facebook status updates, the strangely ego-driven tweets, the routine, the game we live, the things we do because we feel we should do them, the things we do because they give us the “gift” of feeling “normal.”  And in sorting through these ideas, I’ve started clearing away.  Clearing away thoughts.  And clearing away things as easily as if they were mere thoughts.  I’ve cut my closet in half, given away trinkets I don’t use, books I don’t read, memorabilia that no longer serves me.  I’ve embraced Minimalism.  Things: They are what most of us use to define ourselves.  They’re a language.  They’re a value system.  But what happens when we don’t have them?  What remains?  We are not a pair of suede boots.  We are not a stellar resumé.  And as much as I hate to admit it, we are not even our Cuisinart ice cream makers.

When we clear away the things we think make life sweet, what remains?

Life unsweetened, unsalted, raw.  And it is infinitely more flavorful than the sweetened version.  Just like those macadamia nuts.

I poured my life through a sieve in Montana.  The kindness, laughter, and human bonding that remained is enough to satisfy me for the rest of my life.

Whether you celebrate or not: Merry Christmas.

For me, you remain too.

Cardamom Rose Pistachio Butter

This rich, festive nut butter is perfectly suited for the holidays… And though its color matches the Grinch’s complexion, my heart grew three sizes upon the first bite.

*I submitted this recipe to Diet, Dessert and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend

1 1/2 cups truly raw pistachios

1/4 tsp himalayan salt

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/8 tsp rosewater

1/4 tsp cardamom

16 drops stevia (or to taste)

1) Place pistachios in food processor and grind until a fine flour.

2) Add remaining ingredients to food processor.

3) Process until a smooth butter is created.

So I might have recently likened myself to a Buddhist monk.  It might have been a stretch.  The only trait I can confidently say I mirror to that of a monk is the desire for people to give me food.  Except that probably doesn’t even count because I will gladly beg.  No shame.  Hm.  I should have likened myself to a dog.  Oh, and also there’s been this mystery animal living in a tree outside our front door that I’ve wanted to violently silence.  And that’s not very Buddhist either.

Mystery animal squawks deafeningly like a big old eagle with the disposition of an angry Italian grandmother.  Or a misplaced tropical rainforest parrot trained to act as a neighborhood alarm system.  Mystery animal squawks in said manner all the live long day.  After much consideration, Scott and I settled on what Mystery Animal must be: a baby pterodactyl.  Without a doubt, that is the prime explanation for what could possibly create such an ear-splitting noise.

Then Scott witnessed an incident that took place in a tree he often passes on his bike route.  The incident involved our familiar squawk ringing aloud and a squirrel mouthing the lyric.  A squirrel.  Um… since when do squirrels make sounds?  Squirrels squawk?  Oh, and I suppose rabbits bark?  And deer roar?  Great.  I’ve lived my whole life until now believing that some animals are just mute.  My entire understanding of the silent animal kingdom has been contradicted.  Invalidated.  Demolished.  Look. Delight your eardrums by clicking on “Eastern Grey Squirrel.”  Yeah, it’s official: I fail at squirrel facts.

But Buddhist monks?  They would know about squirrels.  Considering all that meditative observation of the world around them, I bet they see squirrels shrieking away every day.  I’ve got a long way to go.  Still, do I believe I’m evolving?  Yes.  I’m no guru, and I’m certainly not becoming any more “saintly.”  I’m just changing.  Evolving.

The craziest thing is that my evolving hasn’t meant gaining any information or knowledge I didn’t have before.  If anything, the opposite has taken place.

I know less.

I don’t even know what sound squirrels make.

I know very close to nothing.

And I’m actually, weirdly, really okay with that.  In fact, I actually, weirdly, really love it.  I love living having relinquished any expectations of what living should be for me.  I love not knowing what is coming next for me.  I love not even planning what is coming next.  I love being so lost that I’m driven towards adjectives rather than nouns, eclectic bouquets of words rather than career-related labels, to unearth what truly makes me Me.  And of course, I love having my pterodactyl theory be so wrong that the mystery squawker turns out to be not even a similar species.

I’m not going to claim that this newfound peace and joy means I know anything at all.  That’s the number one mistake we all make, I think: trying to make intellectual sense of something that is not meant to be understood intellectually at all.  So instead, I’m simply going to continue not knowing.  Not knowing is good.  Not knowing is my new safe haven.  It’s scary at first, but I invite you to give it a try.  Why?  Here’s the coolest part:  Not knowing includes not knowing limits.  And no matter how “open” you’ve believed yourself to be, you’re still closing yourself off to potential miracles, joy, light, opportunity, and love if you claim to “know.”

Take it from me.  Except: don’t.  Because what do I know?

Raw Stuffed Peppers

makes 4 pepper halves

*I submitted this recipe to “Diet, Dessert and Dogs’” Wellness Weekend

2 red bell peppers, sliced in half down the middle (Optional: dehydrate at 105˚ for 4-6 hours to soften slightly)

1 1/2 cups raw walnuts (I use soaked and dehydrated!)

2 Tbsp coconut aminos

1 Tbsp filtered water

1/2 Tbsp fennel seeds

1/4 cup spinach, basil, or parsley (or combination), finely chopped

1/4 tsp crushed red pepper

1/4 tsp garlic powder

pinch of himalayan pink salt

1) Process raw walnuts and fennel seeds in food processor until it resembles finely ground meat.

2) Add remaining ingredients to walnut “sausage” in a bowl and mix well.

3) Fill red pepper halves with walnut “sausage.”

4) Refrigerate for a few hours to allow flavors to meld and settle.

5) EAT.

Fullness.  Satiety.  No matter the name, it’s one slippery rascal.  A sneaky snake.  Sometimes I am ravenous and it stands me up until I’ve polished off a whole jar of cashini butter.  Other times… Well, I’m still ravenous (let’s be honest)… and it decides to grace me with its presence after seven measly bites.  Fullness makes a foodie Goldilocks out of me, always leaving my tummy with too much or my greedy taste buds with too little.  It’s the ultimate mean girl of brain signals, and as much as I’d rather not play Lindsay Lohan to its Rachel McAdams, there’s a certain holiday coming up that makes deflecting such manipulation impossible.

Thanksgiving.  In case you were unaware, it’s all about Fullness.  Getting full, being full, staying full.  Stuffing oneself with – yes – stuffing.  As a bona fide foodie, I know a thing or two when it comes to these matters.

Two years ago, my stuffing addiction got real serious, real quick.  With Thanksgiving feast generously packed up to my esophagus, we paused only briefly before moving on to coffee, and later, dessert.  While my mother filled hefty mugs with toasty, warming, caffeinated elixirs, I casually pilfered an unsuspecting cup and stole away to the stove top, where I filled said cup with – yes – more stuffing.  Then, I nonchalantly wandered back into the dining room, cradling my mug as if I were cautious of spilling the nonexistent hot liquid and sat down.  While everyone else sipped, I sipped too.  I put the mug to my lips and tipped it just enough so that some stuffing would slide close enough to my mouth for me to suction it in.  I was a giant squid.  No chewing took place.  That would have been a dead giveaway.  Too risky.

This year, I won’t be having any stuffing.

I won’t be having any crispyscrumpdidliumptious Poppy’s potatoes either.

Or sweet potato casserole.

Or my mother’s pie crust.

In short, my Thanksgiving will be a deleted scene from Pan’s Labyrinth.  Good.  I will sit at the table, mountains of stuffing to my right, infinite pumpkin pies to my left, and the sun-starved mayor of Creepytown across from me, eyeballs ready to be plugged in at the slightest lift of my finger.

This is not by choice.

You guessed it: I am still slaying yeast like an anti-candida warrior.  After eight months, you’d think the name “Desi” had become synonymous with “Doom” throughout the little yeast villages of My Gut.  You’d think I would have resumed cultivating my intimate (cannibalistic) relationships with potatoes and rice and lentils and oatmeal and maple syrup and so many other dear friends who have long since moved out of my pantry.  And stomach.  That’s what you’d think.

But it’s never about what we think, is it?  The Universe plays games with us the very same way that Fullness does.  I don’t mind.  In fact, I accept the fact that I won’t be so full this Thanksgiving that bending at the hips is out of the question for at least 24 hours.  I’m okay with that.  I won’t be having stuffing, Poppy’s potatoes, sweet potato casserole, or apple pie.  I won’t be conning my family into believing I’m sipping a coffee-brimmed tea cup that is truthfully food-brimmed.  My stomach won’t be filled to its full capacity.

But I will be full.

I can’t tell you what with.  I don’t actually know.  It’s this feeling both Scott and I get when we’re so happy that we could cry.  And when one of us does begin to cry, the other gingerly asks to be sure the sudden transformation isn’t sadness, “Honey, are you full right now?”  The question is immediately answered with a smile through the tears, “Yes.  I feel so full.”

I now blush for not realizing this sooner… But could it be thanks-giving that we feel?

Well, whatever it may be, this I purposely and earnestly declare, blushing not included:

I have so very much to feel “full” for.

Roughly Raw Pumpkin Pie

Um, I will be having pie, too.

Enter Raw Pumpkin Pie.  Well, roughly raw.  Why?  Because I like my pumpkin so baked, you’d suspect Libby has a stoner identity.  I assure you, though: the rest is as raw as a T-Pain lyric.

*I submitted this recipe to Simply Sugar & Gluten Free’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesdays and Diet, Dessert and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend

crust:

1 cup pecans 

1/4 cup raw coconut flour

3 Tbsp cashew butter (I use Artisana’s)

1/4 tsp himalayan pink salt

filling:

3/4 cup + 1 Tbsp Irish moss paste (These lovely ladies explain how to make it!)

2/3 cup cashews

1/4 cup pecans

1 1/2 cups puréed, cooked pumpkin (Canned or make your own! I made my own with Elana’s help. After baking it, I cooked it on the stovetop over low/med heat and reduced the liquid content by about half)

3 Tbsp xylitol (Or palm sugar, sucanat, more stevia to keep anti-candida, etc.)

1 Tbsp vanilla extract

1 Tbsp pumpkin pie spice (or 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon, 3/4 tsp ginger, 3/8 tsp nutmeg, 3/8 tsp cloves)

1/2 tsp himalayan pink salt

1/8 tsp liquid stevia (I can vouch for this brand only)

1) For the crust first, process the pecans in your food processor until they’re a fine flour.  In a mixing bowl, combine pecan flour, coconut flour, cashew butter, and salt.

2) Press crust dough onto the bottom of a 7″ or 8″ springform pan and place in the freezer.

3) For the filling, process the cashews and pecans in your food processor until they’re smooth.  Add remaining ingredients and blend well, stopping occasionally to scrape down the sides.

4) Once the filling is smooth, remove crust from freezer.  Pour the filling on top of the crust, smooth over the top, decorate as you wish (with pecans or whatever your heart desires!), and return entire pie to the refrigerator.

5) Allow pie to set for at least 6 hours.  The longer, the better.

Whipped Macadamia Cream:

adapted from pure2raw

1 1/2 cups raw macadamia nuts, soaked 6-8 hrs

3/4 cups water (a few table spoons more if you’d prefer more of a “cool whip” consistency)

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 tsp almond extract

1/2 tsp himalayan pink salt

3 Tbsp Irish Moss paste/cashew butter (Optional; Helps with fluffiness)

1) Blend macadamia nuts in food processor until very smooth.

2) Add remaining ingredients and blend until fluffy.

3) Place in refrigerator to set for a few hours.  Use as needed and store in refrigerator until all gone!

I’ve been trying to write this post for a few days, but every time I sit down to do it, my fingers abruptly decide they have better things to do (like typing my password into my Netflix account) just as my brain simultaneously shouts, “I’m blowing this popsicle stand!” and departs to an undisclosed location.  I have some theories that might explain this.

My fingers, themselves, may have an even bigger addiction to Breaking Bad than I do.

My brain might be having a secret affair with another blog.

The mere mouthwatering image of raw spice cake truffles maybe makes me forget how to act like a human.

Three solid options.  However, as believable as each of these possibilities is, none of them quite ring true.  So… what is the real reason?

Iateanentire16ozjarofArtisana’scashinibutterinonesittingafewdaysago.

Ahem.

I ate an entire 16 oz jar of Artisana’s cashini butter in one sitting a few days ago.  Did I mention it was an entire 16 oz?  And that is was in a single sitting?  And that it was only one of the many other things I ate that day?

What does my consuming a normal person’s month supply of cashini have to do with my inability to write a silly little blog post?  Well, a lot, apparently.  Writing is a confirmation of Who I Am.  The act of writing fuels my joy.  It usually ends leaving me with a unique collection of words that I carefully chose and creatively strung together.  A recipe of which I’m proud.  A dish that both my ego and my soul would agree to go halves-ies on.

But… I recently ate an entire 16 oz jar of cashini.  All by myself.  In about a half an hour.  And somehow, it made me feel like a terrible person.  Somehow, it made completely inaccessible any joy, pride, or confidence when creating.  Somehow, it replaced my brain with a tiny Gisele Bündchen repeating, “There’s simply no hope for your thighs now.”  She grimly declares this and then runway walks from my frontal lobe to occipital lobe in one single stride because even her legs in miniature are so outrageously long compared to those of her action-figure-sized friends – scratch that - lego people friends.  They don’t even get to experience the joys of having knees.

I have knees.  It’s nice.  And my legs are strong.  They carry me through all sorts of hikes.  They dance their way through all sorts of choreography.  My right knee displays a prominent piece of lead on its side where I naively stabbed it with a pencil in kindergarten, and there’s not even an ounce of hard feelings between us.  Equally, my left thigh features a quarter-sized circle of discoloration where I naively rested a pan (hot off the burner) two years ago, and does my left thigh seek revenge?  Nay.  My legs are kind to me.  How can I be so cruel to them?

Oh yeah… BECAUSE I ATE AN ENTIRE 16 OZ JAR OF CASHINI THE OTHER DAY.  And somehow, it made me feel like less.  Less capable.  Less beautiful.  Less perfect.  Less Desi.  Somehow, it made me turn on myself with an eye more critical than those Negative Nancy folk who specifically sign on to Amazon simply to catapult a mess of harsh words and a bad rating at every product they’ve ever purchased.  No shower curtain rod, toaster, or used book is ever good enough.

What is most fascinating to me about this whole experience is how I’ve been swimming in self-bashing for days, and yet I’d never considered writing about it until now.  In fact, my impulse was to push it under the rug.  Don’t talk about it.  Feel ashamed for feeling ashamed in the first place.  Then I realized what silence would accomplish.  It would only feed this body image plague that runs rampant in our country.  Staying quiet does nothing but uphold the glamourous myth stating that beauty is attainable by just two ways: photoshop or self-destruction.

I’m done with staying quiet.

The reason: I ate an entire jar of cashini in under an hour.  And I haven’t stopped punishing myself for it since.  And… I think you and I are the same.

No, I’m not accusing you of sharing my nut butter addiction and black hole of a stomach.  I’m merely suggesting that we each have our own personal cashini jar.  It is whatever triggers us to be our own bullies: a mirror, a magazine cover, a cookie, even a so-called “friend.”  Our bullies are present more than we realize.  They haunt us so often, you’d think all of American womankind has multiple personality disorder.  This being the norm, it is all the more difficult to recognize and remain aware of it.  As soon as we acknowledge that our culture’s twisted values affect us all , and that life is not to be confused with a constant state of comparing, maybe we’ll also realize that our “cashini jars” have, in truth, zero power over us.  Maybe uniting in our pain will be enough to reverse it.  I hope so.  I, for one, long for the day when I’ll eat an entire 16 oz jar of cashini, maybe get a stomach ache, laugh about it, embrace my puppy love infatuation with food, and then let it go.  Sans Gisele, please.

I believe the “beauty myth” exists to keep us divided against ourselves and against each other.  And we’re buying it.  Maybe less and less, mind you, but we’re still buying it.

Anyone save their receipts?

Courage for this post was drawn from Caitlin at Healthy Tipping Point and Angela at Oh She Glows

Raw Spice Cake Truffles

adapted from Casey’s Lemon and Coconut Balls 

*I’ve submitted this recipe to Simply Sugar and Gluten Free’s Slightly Indulgent Tuesday and Diet, Dessert and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend

1 ripe avocado

1/4 cup coconut flour

2 Tbsp raw carob powder

2 Tbsp filtered water

1/2 tsp ground cinnamon, plus more for dusting

1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

1/4 tsp ground ginger

pinch of cloves

1/8 tsp himalayan pink salt

NuNaturals alcohol-free vanilla liquid stevia, to taste (I use about 1 dropper)

1) Blend avocado and water in food processor until smooth.

2) Add all remaining ingredients.  Blend, scrape down sides, and repeat until mixture resembles a uniform cookie dough.

3) Roll spoonfuls into balls and dust with cinnamon.

4) Place truffles in freezer for 1-3 hours (depending on temp of freezer and your personal taste!) and then enjoy!  The freezer hardens them a bit, making the exterior a bit firmer while keeping the interior soft!  I am not sure how long these would last in the fridge since they never last that long after I make them…

]]> http://thepalatepeacemaker.com/2011/11/16/raw-spice-cake-truffles/feed/ 28 desidomo Raw Spice Cake Truffles (1) Raw Spice Cake Truffles (2) Raw Spice Cake Truffles (6) Raw Spice Cake Truffles (3) Raw Spice Cake Truffles (5) http://thepalatepeacemaker.com/2011/11/07/marzipan-almond-butter/ http://thepalatepeacemaker.com/2011/11/07/marzipan-almond-butter/#comments Tue, 08 Nov 2011 01:48:20 +0000 Desi http://thepalatepeacemaker.com/?p=1413 Continue reading →]]> gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, soy-free, vegan, sugar-free, ACD friendly, gum-free, raw

In middle school, I wrote a very serious paper for Social Studies class that explored the highly-dramatic, labyrinthine history of old-fashioned candy shops.  From an early age, it was clear where my priorities lay.  Who were the Junior Mints’ Seniors?  The Sour Patch Parents (ah, the days when the patch had not yet soured)?  The rock(candy)star that had droves of sweet-toothed fans in lines out the door and down the street?

The treat that had the rest beat was Marzipan.

The name alone sounded like magic.  Maybe it was the Mars that did it, making it literally out of this world.  Or the z.  I mean… not enough words feature that rare gem of a letter.  Or the Pan… just as enchanting as another ”Pan” of the “Peter” variety.  Or maybe I’m being far too analytical about this.  Maybe it was just the stuff itself that was the true magic.

But how would I even know about the “stuff itself?”  ’Cause I made it.  Homemade.  My seventh-grade self even shaped it into orange slices, tiny peaches, apples, and bananas, and painted the little faux fruits like a dessert-addicted Michelangelo.  Sub kitchen counter workspace for ceiling.

My first bite summoned one revelation: My sole purpose on earth was to ingest this as often as possible.  My fiftieth bite in my class presentation the next day brought the second: I can feed people!  Not the most conventional hunger-fighter, but true nourishment goes beyond mere vitamins.  And just like that, I’d not only pledged devotion to the marzipan sect of sugar worship, I’d also become a cook.

Marzipan Almond Butter

If you like your almond butter runny, feel free to run your food processor longer than I did with this batch.  Lately, I’ve been enjoying my nut butters thick like cookie dough.  That is probably because I eat them like I would eat cookie dough.  In a bowl.  With a spoon.  They’ve served me well as one of my greatest anti-candida-diet comforts.

* I submitted this recipe to Diet, Dessert And Dogs’ Wellness Weekend.  Check it out!

2 cups raw almonds (I soak and dehydrate mine!)

1/4 tsp Himalayan pink salt

1 tsp almond extract

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1 dropper-ful of vanilla liquid stevia

1) Place almonds in your food processor and let run until it becomes almond meal.

2) Stop the processor and add remaining ingredients.

3) Run processor until almond butter is the consistency you like.  Stop occasionally to scrape the sides down and to rest the processor if you’re concerned with keeping your butter truly “raw” (therefore avoiding overheating).  Depending on how runny you like your almond butter, this could take up to 15 minutes.

“Muffin, in life there are always, like… struggles.”

Behold the words with which Marian began our latest weekly skype date.  I couldn’t have said it better myself.  But then, that’s to be expected.  Marian and I are cut from the same cloth.  It’s a dish cloth.  And that dish cloth is most likely a delicate, flowery, provincially vintage dish cloth you’d find in some weathered woman’s kitchen in the French countryside of La Dordogne.  Or, like, this one from Anthropologie.  Details aside, Marian and I mirror each other.  Right down to our nicknames (I call her “Muffin” as well).  And the mirroring never ceases – even when she is on the other side of the planet, as far from me as she could possibly be.  Which is where she happens to be right now.

As strange as it may sound, there’s something comforting in hearing Marian say this.  There are always struggles in life.  It’s not just me.  The mistake I often make is thinking that dealing with the “struggle du jour” means happiness is out of the question.  But who says struggle and happiness are oil and water?  Who says we can’t experience the struggles we’re evidently going to experience and still be happy simultaneously?  Who says we can’t take struggle the way we take mosquito bites?

Yes, struggle might harden us.  It might be a source of frustration or anger, but both frustration and anger are nothing more than reactions.  They aren’t who we are.  They’re emotions we wear like badges.  We can take those badges off any time we want.  Happiness, on the other hand, is a state of being.  We don’t wear happiness, we are happiness.  And it can never leave us if we never ask it to leave in the first place.

Do you ever find yourself having a day where everything seems to be going wrong and yet you are still strangely happy without knowing why?  It used to happen to me every once in a while.  Now it happens more regularly.  I think that’s because I’m somehow learning how to keep from completely surrendering my state of happiness every single time Life happens to kick me in the shin.  I am evolving.  Buddhist monk style, yo.

It’s so easy to find yourself comparing your everyday grind to that of someone else whether that means you assume that person has it worse or has it better than you do.  But what makes one person’s suffering worse than another’s?  Am I the only person who thinks it’s pointless to play the comparison game?  The truth is that for each of us, what is most difficult for us in our individual lives is exactly that: what is most difficult.  And we never, never, never really know what life is like for the homeless man outside of Best Buy, that seemingly ever-smiling receptionist, or our best friend all the way in New Zealand.

Whether it be through initiating that comparison game or simply planting that dreaded question of “Why me?” in some pocket of our brains, struggle seeks to divide us.  It endeavors to make us believe that we’re all separate, that we’re each alone.  But the more I realize that life’s curveballs hold only the power that I give them, the less power they seem to have. The more deeply I accept my battles and the less seriously I take them, the more room I leave for myself to feel happy.

Marian and I made a pact to play a more active role in cultivating and protecting our own happiness.  We’re currently in the midst of intense list-making!  Short term goals for our souls!  Activities we remember loving as children!  I’m sharing this with you because I’ve found this bit of self-exploration to be profoundly empowering.  We don’t have to wear our suffering girl-scout style, counting up our numbers of badges as if they contribute anything to what defines us.  I’m trading mine in.

So, in the words of Maid Marian: Yes, there are…like…. struggles.

But so what?

Raw Nori Nachos

Inspired by and adapted from The Fitnessista’s Nori Nachos.  If Gina had provided exact measurements to her secret recipe, I probably would not have started experimenting myself!  I’m so glad her post inspired me to hit the kitchen. Thanks, Gina!  You rock. :)

*Also note that I’ve submitted this recipe to The Gluten Free Homemaker’s Gluten Free Wednesdays and to Diet, Dessert and Dogs’ Wellness Weekend

1 package raw nori

1/2 cup raw cashews, soaked 4-6 hrs

1/4 cup coconut aminos

1 jalapeno pepper, seeded

1 small red bell pepper or 1/2 large, seeded

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/2 tsp chili powder

1/4 tsp ground cumin

2 Tbsp lime juice

1) Using food scissors (is there an official name for these?), cut each nori sheet in half.

2) Place remaining ingredients into vita mix or other high speed blender.  Blend until completely smooth.

3) Spoon a bit of mixture over each half-sheet of nori.  Spread to corners.  Divide mixture evenly.

4) Place nori sheets in the dehydrator.  Dehydrate at 105˚ for 12 hrs.

5) Use food scissors to cut each half-sheet into four triangles (nachos!)

6) Return nachos to dehydrator and dehydrate for another 12 hrs, or until nachos reach your desired crispy crunchiness!