It’s Monday, and since I know how we all feel about that, I’m bringing pie to the table. You can bring the coffee, yes?
I’m not much of a pie baker but I certainly have always been a pie eater. Key lime, lemon meringue and apple pies used to always be among my favorites, and while I still carry a pie-shaped torch for them, my heart now fully belongs to strawberry rhubarb pie. I have my husband’s grandma to thank for that.
If there is one thing I can be remembered for in this life, I hope it is this blueberry lemon muffin bread.
Just kidding. I hope to remembered for other, perhaps more important, things, but I do also intend to have this bread go down in history books as one of the greats.
That’s not to say this bread isn’t important in its own way. I mean, there are fresh blueberries and lemon zest speckled throughout the loaf that is then topped with the best crunch topping in all the land. To say you need this bread ASAP is an understatement. You, like, NEED this bread.
GOOD NEWS, ladies and gentlefolk! It’s Day 4 of Whole30 and I am alive.
I’m also crying a bit into my black coffee (I miss you, milk) and my breakfast plate looks strange without its usual peanut butter toast situation, but so far we are surviving — dare I say, thriving?
Truth be told, so far it hasn’t been as hard as I thought it would be. Granted, I know we are like 7.555% of the way done with the program, but still. I take pride in each day accomplished. And I believe I’ve already eaten one thousand eggs, 50 avocados and an entire farmers market’s worth of vegetables. It’s been great you guys, just really really great. Just really, really, really, really…
OK I do miss cheese the most. Like, THE MOST.
But we are moving along. And this carrot sesame salad is coming with us. Because believe it or not, just five ingredients come together in this pretty little number that, when combined, are just dazzling to the tastebuds. (I almost wrote “bedazzling,” as in the BeDazzler. I think I need more black coffee.)
Attention, pickle lovers! I am one of you people, and I am here for you with this easy pickled rhubarb that you will LOVE with all of your tart-loving tastebuds.
I know it’s just the veryveryvery start of rhubarb season, but you see, I was at the grocery store the other day and there — tucked between the Swiss chard and the organic carrots that I always want to buy just because they still have those gorgeous long green frond-y stems attached but GARSH are they expensive — was a bundle of bright red rhubarb. Glory glory. Spring is HERE, y’all. The rhubarb said so.
So naturally, I hoofed it over to the display and maniacally shoveled a gigantic handful of stalks into my cart. Onlookers probably thought me insane — they might be right. But RHUBARB, you guys.
Of course, I ended up buying way more rhubarb than I needed for any one recipe, so first, I made a pie (recipe is coming soon!) and with what was left, I made pickles. And it was good.
Firstly, thank you, EVERY ONE OF YOU, for the unbelievably kind, thoughtful and supportive comments, e-mails and text messages you sent my way about my last post. Your kindness has blown me away, and I am ever the more grateful for this space we share. I read each message with sincere appreciation and each one has helped me to heal. Thank you thank you.
Secondly, I’m writing this post as I devour yet another slice of this chocolate bread, because it is truly the greatest thing to come out of my kitchen in weeks — maybe even months. Each bite is soft, chewy, full of melty chocolate bits and I cannot stop eating it. I’m about to go in for another slice, if I’m being honest.
A couple of weeks ago, I found out I had a miscarriage. What I expected to be a routine 11-week appointment and my very first ultrasound where I would get to see my baby for the first time, see it bounce around on the black and white screen, its little heartbeat aflutter, ended abruptly with the news from my doctor that in fact, my baby had not made it past 9 weeks. The feeling I had in that exact moment is difficult to describe — it was as if the room was expanding, exhaling, to an infinite scale, and then immediately contracting, closing in, the walls so tight around me I could barely breathe. I saw her words — “I’m concerned this is a miscarriage” — spoken to me directly, but I heard them as though echoed from across a long hallway, to the general air around her. Not to me, surely. This couldn’t be happening to me.