Scones and Rice Krispie Treats

I've recently decided that in a household of 4, plus two cats, it's rather likely that two or more of us will be grouchy at any given moment. This was a week of grouchiness, including several episodes with Olivia's crazy cat.

But on the weekend I managed to get into the kitchen. Since we were headed to two parties in Columbus, one of which was a potluck for ESL learners at the Worthington Library, I decided to pull out my new Vij's at Home cookbook.

(When we were in Vancouver I had a great French lunch with my friend and colleague Evelyn, and our UBC hosts took us to an amazing Chinese restaurant, called Lin's, I think. But after that our timing got all messed up and it became clear that we were not going to manage to go to any more restaurants. So when we were gathering picnic food at the indoor market, I made sure to buy one of the cookbooks from Vij's, which they say is the best Indian restaurant in Vancouver. The cookbook is fantastic, and I've tried 5 or 6 recipes from it already.)

So I made "Curried Devilled Eggs" for the primarily Asian crowd at the library -- folks from India, South Korea, Japan, and Iran. The eggs were a hit (with anyone who wasn't vegan...).

I also made a big tray of my grandmother's Rice Krispie Treats. These are totally 1970s, made with Karo syrup, but with the important addition of peanut butter AND an entire bag each of semi-sweet chocolate chips and butterscotch morsels. Feel-good cookies like nobody's business. I've never been able to eat normal Rice Krispie Treats, because these have a thick layer of chocolate/butterscotch goodness smeared on top. Somehow Gramma Rose always had them stashed away somewhere whenever I visited.

And then this morning I baked chocolate chip scones and made brunch. That made the whole weekend worthwhile, because we chatted on skype with relatives east and west and ate our brunch by the woodstove. We then played a hilarious game of "Hedbanz," in which Olivia had to guess that she was a parking lot, and Zachary trotted out all the literary characters he knows for about three turns before realizing he was Frankenstein. (If we hadn't clued Steve in on Sylvester Stallone, or me on the Teddy Bear, the game might still be going on.) Hedbanz is truly fun and funny; everyone was in tears when I somehow decided I might be a mailbox.

In short. Grouchy is as grouchy does, but if we stick together and bake something, it all turns out all right.

Recipes TK, as my mom would say.

Comments

Cringeworthy? Really??

It's so sad. I've gotten my first reaction to my new book. Well, second reaction. My sweet husband was brought to tears reading the introduction (possibly because he remembered just how many drafts of each section of the book, and of all the sections left on the cutting room floor, that he had read, and read, and read before). But now I've heard from a potential reader that his Russian friend-in-exile (and more importantly that friend's teenage son) think the title is кринжовый. Ouch. That hurts. Why do we need Russian literature? Do we? My Polish friend wrote to encourage me when she saw my linked in post about the publication and assured me that SHE and all her friends still love Russian literature ... even and despite the fact that Russians sometimes misbehave. (Some Russians more than others, and sometimes not just misbehaving--the world's reaction to the murder of Alexey Navalny in prison is noteworthy and important. We need to hold those responsible in contem

RIP Randy Nolde

In everyone's life there is a teacher who motivated her to try harder, strive for more, reach beyond. Or in my case, a teacher who teased, goaded, poked, pried, laughed, lampooned, and somehow created an atmosphere where I was ready to work my tail off to make him proud. Randy Nolde, we will miss you. Mr. Nolde was my Russian teacher in high school. I first got to know him as a younger person -- the Russian Club Banquet was quite the event in my home town, and my grandmother used to take us regularly even before my sister enrolled in Russian language class. Every year, the high school cafeteria underwent a magical metamorphosis. Huge murals of scenes from Russia -- fantastic, colorful onion-domed churches, and young peasants reaping wheat, and Armenian maidens with long braids and colorful costumes -- hung all around the edges of the room. On the menu: chicken Kiev made by the cafeteria ladies, supplemented with cafeteria salad, but also khachapuri and piroshki made by the

Personal Sanctions. Second Reactions

On Thursday I fled Denver in the face of what was promising to be an epic snowstorm. (My AirBnB host, who grew up in Michigan, advised that Denver is quick to hit the panic button, but I didn't dare stick around to find out. I needed to be home before Monday!) In the plane, waiting for de-icing, I checked my e-mail and learned that I had been added to a so-called "stop-list" of U.S. citizens who are being personally sanctioned for our attitudes toward the Russian government and its internal and foreign affairs. It's not often that you end up on a list with the head of Lockheed Martin--certainly nothing I ever expected. But then, I also had never thought of myself as a Russophobe, and now that's the label that has been affixed to me by the Russian Federation. I had just been upgraded to first class--apparently not a lot of people were fleeing Denver that morning!--so I did what any Russophobe would do: I ordered a vodka from the flight attendant. An American vodka,

Manic Bookstore Cafe

Search This Blog