Walking after dinner is a pleasure here in Santa Fe. The light is magic. The adobe walls throb with the heat of the day [you cannot res...
Walking after dinner is a pleasure here in Santa Fe. The light is magic. The adobe walls throb with the heat of the day [you cannot resist raising your palms to it]. Solar power.
In less than two weeks we'll be moving north. Out of the city. Into the country. A place - once a pueblo- called Abiquiu. A tiny village. We'll have llamas and horses for neighbors. And two sour cherry trees and an apple tree to frame our view of the distant bluish hills beyond the Chama River. I'm itching to be there now. To breathe the sense of peace I feel when I turn down the county road and drive along the bosque, green with old cottonwoods.
We've picked out a carved Mexican bed two roperos (there are no closets!), and a couple of tables - a kitchen table carved from New Mexican juniper, and a beat up old wooden table with worn blue paint, perfect for a desk Two generous leather chairs. Some pottery made by local hands. A few mismatched dishes in violet, deep red, green and turquoise. Mexican glasses in various shades of green, blue and teal.
I still can't decide on a KitchenAid color [or if I'll even need a standing mixer here at high altitude - baking here will prove a double challenge - gluten-free + high altitude = potential for baking disasters].
Any tips on baking gluten-free in the high desert are welcome.