The Ink-Pot and the Palette

I only met my paternal grandfather twice. The first time, I was about three. He took me for ice cream. I wanted “green” which, to my West Coast and three-year-old mind was self-evidently lime sherbet. To his East Coast sensibilities, it meant pistachio. I cried all the way home. He said, “Damn kid” and “How the hell am I supposed to know what green ice cream is?” (This is a famous family story, often repeated--I doubt whether I actually remember it directly.)

It was barely a thing. It was a toddler crying over ice cream. Boo-hoo little special snowflake. But it was also a grown man normalizing rage and contempt for a grandchild he would only meet once again in his life. I must have deserved it. I was stupid. I should have known better. People will get mad and say bad things, and maybe shake me a little, if I don’t “learn to like it.” These are the preconscious proto-reactions of a three-year-old child.

( Unto the third and the fourth generation )

My brother, Allan Gibbons, took this pastel sketch in a life drawing class in 1995 and gave it to our parents. It has passed through the houses of various family members over the years, and today it has made its way at last onto my not-black living room walls, where it looks wonderful, and joins several other Allan Gibbons originals--and some Shirley Gibbonses, too (that's my mom).

Art in the family: one of the joys of my life.

The fact that there are still memes makes me kind of happy. oursin was doing the "Things I'm Grateful For/Happy About Beginning With the Letter _" meme. She gave me the letter H.

( Read more... )

(Crossposted to bicycles)

Back in 1895 or so, Miss Gertrude Cone (later Gertrude Yost, and my mother's mother's mother) put on her best outdoor gear and posed with her elegant ladies' bicycle at the side of the Willamette River in Portland.

( It's nice to have roots. )

After the little flurry of family angst yesterday, Christmas Day turned out to be perfectly splendid. The oh-so-casual beef dinner at Xmas-Sister's house was not only delicious (seriously, the best beef I've eaten in a long time, and home-grown green beans, plus mashed Yukon gold potatoes and a really good key lime cheesecake of which I had a sliver), but entirely relaxed and enjoyable, AND attended by all available local family members.

( Technical difficulties )

I was dropping off the Zipcar by 6:50, so No-Xmas Sister and I went to have a look at some pretty Christmas lights...

( Pretty Christmas Lights )

...and then I came home. I found a Hacker's Diet-compliant weight-loss tracking app for Android, and have been fiddling with it happily like a happy weight-losing geek all evening.

And to top it all off, I did not overeat today one bit. \o/

( What a splendid birthday! )

Not exactly a party animal, I know (well, I never was), but I had a lovely, lovely day from start to finish, and I hope everybody else's birthdays will always be as nice as mine was yesterday.

I thought this was a terrific photo.

( It's of my brother, at his work. )

My nephew and I made Napoleons last night. See what I did there with the subject line?

I have conquered gluten-free puff pastry, you see. I had half a batch in the fridge (the first half having gone to make little test crackers), and I wanted to use it up before it went off. So I told my nephew, who's getting to that always-hungry age, that I was going to make Napoleons, and would he like to help out and then eat them?

"What're Napoleons?"

"They are delicious stacks of puff pastry layered with rich vanilla pastry cream and topped with chocolate-striped fondant."

Nephew, being a sensible boy who has been raised on good food, a) actually knew what I was talking about in that description and b) instantly perceived its appeal.

We ran to the store for a few things, then came back and he read me the recipe and measured stuff (in between playing with his iPhone and talking to me about Halo Reach), and by and by we had these sort-of Napoleons.

The pastry cream was too thin--more of a crème anglaise, really. We could not be bothered with fondant, so settled for powdered-sugar icing. The chocolate stripes were more like little blobs ("polka dots," we decided), and the result was incredibly messy and the portion had to be served in a bowl, with more custard spooned over the top to make up for what smooshed out upon cutting.

It was not photogenic, so I didn't photograph it.

But oh sweet mother of Jesus, it was delicious. The puff pastry (made from rice and tapioca flours, mostly) was absolutely perfectly croustillant--it crackled between the teeth with the most delicious crunch, and stayed crisp even in the face of the too-thin pastry cream. The pastry cream was rich and sweet and vanilla and cold. Eating this thing was dessert heaven.

Nephew and I each had a portion, then my 17 year old niece came over and she and I split what was left. She agreed that this was one of the greater family pâtisserie achievements ever.

Then I went to bed, and oh the dreams I had. The tossing and turning. The noise of my brain. I awoke this morning with a genuine, honest-to-badness hangover from the sugar. It took me two quarts of water, two ibuprofen, and two large cups of black coffee to begin to feel like a real girl again.

It's been a long time since I sugared out like that. Makes me realize how far I've come, because I used to be in that state, like, most of the time.

So will I be making gluten free Napoleons again? Oh hell yes. But I'll make them presentable, so that I can present them to others before they kill me.