Gluten-Free Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

Wonderful gluten-free oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips

Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. For your gluten-free munching pleasure.

I suppose you could argue that one oatmeal cookie recipe is enough. I mean, how many oatmeal cookie recipes does a person need? To this I answer, at least two. Why? Well, first you have one with raisins. Raisins give oatmeal cookies that old school chewy sneaky nutrition boost. They're old fashioned and comfy cozy. Kinda like spending one of those Saturday afternoons at your Aunt Martha's house, chillin'. Watching Mr. Rogers and laying on the floor with a pile of coloring books. Coloring outside the lines with a beat up box of Crayolas.

Wishing the silver crayon was more than a lonely nub.

And right at that nub lamenting moment she'd bring you a plate of cookies.

I never had an Aunt Martha. But I did have a chain smoking platinum blond Aunt Patty who liked martinis a little too much. Or maybe it was gin and tonics. There was ice in the glass. If I was lucky enough to scrounge up a coloring book and some crayons, I would hide behind the sofa. I didn't want to hear her opinion on pantyhose or how you could tell a woman's age by looking at her knees. I'd wait out the tedious afternoon without cookies. If I was lucky, I might get some tap water Kool-Aid. Or a plastic bowl of Cheetos.

Perhaps that's why I'm not a fan of raisins in oatmeal cookies. I don't nurture comforting memories of their shrunken grape taste, though I appreciate their fine qualities- in an abstract, theoretical sense.

No, I'm more of a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie kind of girl. Especially when the cookies are warm and the chips are melty. Chocolate makes everything right with the world. So here's oatmeal cookie recipe number two. Bake some up this week.

I say, be your own Aunt Martha.


Lemony Gluten-Free Pasta with Grilled Asparagus

Lemon Infused Pasta Salad with Fresh Herbs and Grilled Asparagus
A light, lemony vegan pasta salad. Gluten-free.


Light + Lemony Gluten-Free Pasta Salad


To speak about something as prosaic as pasta salad seems downright ho-hum. I mean. It's just a pasta salad. It's something I tossed together with stuff I had on hand. I hadn't planned on it. I didn't spend days contemplating the ins and outs and quirks of gluten-free penne. In fact, if I'm being unabashedly honest here I rarely think about food at all.

Until I'm hungry.

Until those familiar, nagging pangs begin gnawing their pesky little way into my consciousness, distracting me from my preferred, visual nomenclature- which rarely includes anything edible.

I daydream about paint, the plight of bees, and Clint Mansell's score for Moon. I notice the temperature of light and the curve of negative space against a jar of old spoons. I think about expectations and illusions and perceptions. I ponder where my soul is taking me, tugging at me to pay attention to my life, inviting me through dreams and the random snippets of music or ideas or theories that skitter and skate and ripple the mental stream I wade in day after day, to consider time itself- if I believe in it- sliding by in a cool constant flow of now.

I rarely eat breakfast. I often forget lunch. And dinner time always surprises me. As if each day takes figuring out all over again how to (****ing) live (to paraphrase the Deadwood Zen master David Milch).

This doesn't mean I don't appreciate good food.

Or that I hate to cook (well, some days I am less than enthusiastic).

I loathe junk food and processed food. I can't take credit for this- it's simply the way I'm built, the way my body so pointedly rejects any easy, packaged fix.

Even before I discovered gluten intolerance and FODMAPs I knew on some instinctual level that in order to keep this body of mine healthy and strong for the here and now I have to pay it some attention.

I know I have to eat.

And eat consciously.

And so I find myself rummaging in the little white painted cupboard that is my pantry.

And I find a box of gluten-free penne.

In the fridge I locate a fistful of spring asparagus.

One lemon.

A few sprigs of dill, marjoram, parsley and mint.

The rest is history.

Now in my belly.

Fuel for instigating thoughts of rebirth, fragility, and the particular pink that is ranunculus.