Gluten-Free Almond Zucchini Mini-Muffins



Temptation. A to Z.

Almond flour and zucchini mini-muffins sweetened only with pure maple syrup. That's right. No cane sugar. Almond flour and bourbon vanilla bring their subtle, natural sweetness to gluten-free muffin recipes, so why cloak it with a heavy dose of sugar? And adding a lip-smacking kiss of ginger wakes up the zucchini (which tends to fall asleep in baking recipes, due to utter lack of commitment and verve).

I've added quinoa flakes for extra protein, and brown rice flour to round out the whole grains. And a small bit of tapioca starch- to give these whole grain based muffins some lift. Now the only hitch is, don't eat all twenty-four at once, Darling.

Tell yourself you're only going to eat one.

Well, maybe two.

Don't think about three.

Or imagine four.

Because that fourth delectable bite of nary a muffin- really, it's only a tease of a muffin- might stir your desire for a fifth. And the next thing you know, half the mini-muffin pan is empty. And you are standing, wide-eyed and innocent, brushing baby sized crumbs off your chin, when your husband swings around the corner into the sunlit kitchen and inhales, declaring, Sweet Tapdancing Buddha, it smells good in here! What did you bake?

And thinking lickity-split fast you tell him, I made a dozen almond flour zucchini mini-muffins.

Want to try one?


Gluten-Free Zucchini Recipes

Gluten-Free Goddess Zucchini Cake


My Best Zucchini Recipes


Summertime and zucchini. They go together like politics and schpilkis. But let's not talk political. Let's talk zukes. And recipes. It'll be tastier.

And easier to digest.

Read on to find my six favorite recipes featuring zukes...



Gluten-Free Peach Crisp Recipe

Gluten-Free Goddess Peach Crisp
 



Peachy Goodness.

Your plucky gluten-free goddess at large has been conjuring egg-free disasters- one after another- in her tiny blue-tiled cocina. And tossing said disasters (affectionately known as drek) into the trash bin left and right, developing quite an aim despite her gloomy disposition.

She shoots- she scores!

In fact, the greenbacks spent on the alternative flours, gluten-free casein-free mixes, tiny allergen-free chocolate chips and organic bananas could have bought said Gluten-Free Goddess a lovely bottle of Lavanila Summer. The big bottle, not the purse size. 

And by the way, don't believe what they tell you about subbing eggs with bananas in a chocolate recipe, Babycakes, unless you have a taste for tacky, gummy brownies that have a faint but distinct Eau de Baby Food top note.

But in every third act... there's a moment.

You know, that pregnant pause, where our bruised but glistening heroine turns- damp and tendrilled, emotionally raw, soy-free chocolate smears artfully adorning her noble apron- and tucks an errant wisp of hair behind her left ear as she squints into the radiating oven, inhales a whiff of cinnamon-laced peachy heaven and senses deep in her fragile loyal heart she's got a winner. 

Cue music.

Darling, this summery vegan treat is so luscious your gluten-eating wiener-chomping friends will scrape their plates shiny clean and beg for more. They will. Promise.

So you may as well make two. One for them.

And one for you.




Gluten-Free Peach Muffins with Almond Flour

Tender gluten-free muffins with peaches and almond flour


Juicy. Peach. Muffins.

Today is a total beach day. And here I am working. Editing photographs of peach muffins and writing up a gluten-free recipe. No rest for the wicked. Or the self-employed. We bloggers toil at our living daily, working through holidays, Sundays, football games, and oftentimes, dinner. We tend and tweak and pretty much live a tethered geek life. The opposite of glamorous.

Or maybe it's just me.

Because there are plenty of extroverted bloggers who travel and attend blogging conferences and hob nob. They dine together and smile brilliantly in group pictures, tweeting breathlessly their mutual squee and Instagram cocktails. 

And I envy them. Sometimes. Just a little.

But alas, it is not meant to be. I am destined, you see, to the role of wallflower. 

Because the mere, fleeting snippet of a thought about flying somewhere- alone- which, you know, entails the whole going through various humming x-ray machines and raising your arms for total strangers wielding wands up your inner thigh, not to mention, the whole taking one's shoes off and fumbling to put them back on (the right feet) so that the person (make that seventeen persons) behind you doesn't get impatient while you wrestle with your buckles and your unzipped purse and boarding pass and reading glasses and explain to the squinting security guy that the mystery wad of metal in your bag's side pocket is only dimes and quarters you collect for Santa Monica parking meters as he picks out all thirty-seven coins just to make sure and for good measure keeps your nail clippers (in all the excitement, you didn't confess you were also carrying nail clippers). 

And then there's the whole belting yourself into a hulking metal beast with wings that weighs goddess knows how many megatons, and snugging your post-baby pelvis to a polyester burnt orange float-able seat cushion between a shiny headed businessman who obviously ate raw onions for lunch and college professor reading the New York Times who you just know secretly wants to discuss Obama's clean energy policy. 

Where is Matthew McConaughey when you need him?

Such visions send spikes of fear and loathing down my duodenal canal.

So I imagine muffins.

I inhale peaches at the market admiring their curve and fuzz. I peel them gently and coax out the stone pit. I slice them into jewels that will fit on the tongue and give up a burst of sweet tart juice. I stir almond meal into powder soft flours and squeeze lime juice and sprinkle cinnamon.

I bake.


Gluten-Free Peach Cake with Cinnamon Streusel

Gluten-free peach coffee cake recipe from gluten free goddess


Why is it when I bake a coffee cake I get all dreamy and gooey inside, like a knee-socked school girl in Latin class, riveted to the patch of peachy, fuzzy cloud against the swaying swatch of blue between the maple tree branches outside the classroom window, imagining love itself is out there, waiting, breathing, just beyond reach, ready to pounce. Like grace. When you least expect it, a gift arrives.

Often in a form you don't recognize at first.

Like a plaid shirt.

And hands that juggle.

The truth is, I didn't even know juggling was on my list.

My top criteria (scrawled in gel black ink one rainy night post divorce) listed kindness, a sense of humor, artistic.

It conjured images of tempered masculinity. Intelligence. Adept at conversation. Curiosity.

Likes women (a big one).

It mentioned nothing about juggling. Or fierce devotion to coffee. Or a willingness to wash dishes. It neglected to include the seductive power of coffee cake. The sexy allure of a cinnamon dusted chin.

So imagine my surprise when on our second date (post French roast coffee and dirt bomb muffins) he grabs three apples. And juggles. While whistling. I can't remember the tune.

Because my knees turned to pudding.

And now, almost twenty years later, I hear a key in the door. And my heart is grateful. It's him. The guy in a plaid shirt.

Bearing peaches.

More gifts.

And once more, I accept.


Quinoa Summer Stir-Fry



Easy. Easy. Easy.

Trying to find a Los Angeles sublet for the summer- within our budget- is as slippery and twisted as charting Madonna's romantic liaisons post Guy Ritchie. It's a serpentine endeavor, this whole reading between the lines thing, deciphering what is true and what is only mostly true. It's all those key buzz words peppering Craig's List and Westside Rentals. "Convenient to the 10" can mean the eastern bedroom window sucks in freeway exhaust during rush hour. "Pet friendly" might translate to everyone in the building works all day and leaves their poor pooches to yap and woof until the cows come home. Which, as we all know, in LA is after sushi and mojitos.

"Cozy studio" can mean cute and comfy or it can mean as cramped and tight as a walk-in closet. Not Madonna's closet(s). I'm sure hers are bi-coastal and coordinated by era, each epoch's collection larger than our entire casita. We're talking my closet here. The five foot black hole currently crammed with winter parkas, too many mismatched socks to count, and the book-filled boxes I'm storing for this alleged, yet-to-materialize summer getaway.

And the price for the privilege of said 150 square feet of space in Venice Beach?

If you have to ask, Darling, you can't afford it. Which as it turns out, is a moot detail anyway, because no one on Craig's List ever answers your e-mails (especially when they notice your out of town area code). So here we sit. Grazing the Internet till the migraines kick in, picking through rentals beyond our budget, hoping for an affordable hidden gem amongst the inflated glut of summer housing in Los Angeles. Unless we're looking for a roommate. We could afford one room. Shared bath. With a UCLA student.


So what am I cooking during all this rental drama, you impatiently ask as I ponder our next move?

That would be quinoa.


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