Pumpkin Cupcakes with Maple Icing

Gluten-free dairy-free pumpkin cupcakes for Fall.

I need to wander off a bit. Because it's who I am. A person who wanders. Ponders. Finds solace in books. I've been like this since girlhood. Curious. Serious. No good at catching balls. Or dressing dolls. I am beyond inept with hair. And eyeliner. Nail polish. I get anxious and non-verbal if I have to wear anything that isn't a pair of jeans.

I hold the opinion that there is more to life than collapsing in front of the television and microwaving hot dogs. I think that beauty- as Steve Jobs believed- is important, has value. That we are deeply interconnected. That life on Earth is precious- from the house sparrow to the living sea. That we are part of a vast and mysterious collective- not merely of our absurd egos (who natter inside our heads and squander our attention on drama, conflict, acquisition and the need to control)- but of a newly unfolding awareness of astonishing inner space and outer space. Infinity in every direction.

Which begs the question.

Who am I? Really. I know I am not the car I drive or the laundry detergent I use. I know I am not what I identify with. I am not what I embrace- or reject. Though for years I thought so. I believed my opinions created a self. Made me Me. Now that I am old enough to have lived through countless opinion reversals, I realize opinions are temporary. And not defining.

Just as I am not my baby teeth. Or my once lactating voluptuousness. Or my sprouting silver hair. Or what music I listen to. Or what jeans I outgrow. I am not even the woman baking pumpkin cupcakes for her readers. Or am I? Well, maybe I am. Just a little. But wait. Doesn't that make me the sum of what I do? I bake therefore I am?

I am trying lately not to be so much of a human doing. And more of a human being.

It's not as easy as one might think.

And therein lies the trouble. The whole thinking thing. Our brain. Our wired hardware. It disconnects us. It addicts us. It overrides the heart and soul of what is really going on. The being we really are. Beneath the seductive and glossy surface of things. The spark that burns from the greater whole.

I see that spark in you.

It's why I made you cupcakes.


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Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies

  

Warm from the oven buckwheat chocolate chip cookies.

I know what you're thinking. Not another cookie recipe. Please. I've had it with melty chocolate chips and crunchy, chewy sweetness. Where are the rutabaga recipes, dagnabbit? And what about beets? Or parsnips? I've got a hankering for kale the size of Wyoming. I yearn for jicama. Cook me up some kohlrabi, already. Sorry, Darling. Not today. You'll have to be patient.

There are cookies to bake.

And these are gluten-free.

And wheat-free.

And dairy-free.

And vegan.

But I'll be honest.

Baking egg-free, butter-free, gluten-free cookies (that actually taste tempting) can be tough. So if you- or an angel you love- are allergic to one- or several- of the top food allergens, or consciously living GF/CF for ASD reasons, just know I'm in the weird and rocky boat with you.

Which is why I keep experimenting and tweaking recipes.

And if the butter-eating glutenous In Crowd doesn't get it, I say, You know what, Cheese Breath? Just go eat your Twinkies, will ya?

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Best Gluten-Free Pumpkin Bars Recipe

Frosted gluten-free pumpkin bars with a secret ingredient.

Tuning in to the particular (and fleeting) pleasures of each changing season as we ride the wheel of the year may be my favorite spiritual practice. A practice that requires one simple thing. Attention. Which turns out to be not so simple, inevitably. Because life is anything but simple, with its whitewater rush of mind numbing distractions that demand less and less of our soul and more and more of our mental focus on exterior minutia. Micro decisions. Cleaning out our email in-box. Catching up with Facebook feeds and Twitter streams and Google+. Texting about grocery lists. Scanning streaming video options- thousands of choices may glitter and ooze their high definition glow but I find I am not feeling the abundance.

I am less and less enamored with more.

I know. It's showing. My age. My childhood brain was wired for mud and bird calls, blackberry thickets and butterscotch pine. Hours spent reading in a grove of birch trees dug their neural groove. The wild luxuries of inner connection, rather than social networking. And TIME. That plastic, misunderstood, precious commodity that shape-shifts experience from an endless afternoon of liquid daylight into a heart clutching warp speed tumble of confusion. Decades become tiny sandwiches of memory you can barely taste anymore.

Weeks blink by with alarming velocity.

And here we are again.

In pumpkin season.

And so. I stop. And notice the way the late day sun drops low and shimmers golden in the treeline. The crows are gathering earlier. Glossy black and strutting with authority. The smell of burnished leaves scuttling across a wet Cape sidewalk is the same smell I inhaled on a road trip in Vermont fifteen years ago, standing on a wooden bridge above a clear shallow creek while our sons balanced on the slick rocks below us, fishing for smooth round stones.

Do they remember this? Do they remember the same hours I do, in the sand on Skaket Beach? Do they ever have a sudden itch to feed their senses with the scents and sounds of a freshwater riverbed, a sun warmed tide pool? Do they crave a winding path through apple trees? Were their brains hardwired for this connection, too?

I ponder this as I stir a new pumpkin batter.

And breathe in the scents of ginger and cinnamon, listening to the leafy rustle of an almond flour bag as I fold up the cellophane and pinch it closed with a clothespin.


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Gluten-Free Zucchini Flaxseed Muffins

Warm from the oven zucchini flaxseed muffins- gluten-free, wheat-free.

Harvest Moon Muffins

It's been a Supermoon Summer. We've been blessed with not just one, but a triad of big bright beautiful moons worthy of a cameo in one of my all-time favorite movies, Moonstruck. Tonight's Supermoon is the Harvest Moon. 

And like the previous two, this is a moon to swoon by. 

Smooch by. 

And yeah, bake by.

Because baking can be romantic. And fresh baked muffins can mean love is afoot.

So if you've got an extra late zucchini kicking around the garden, darling- harvest it ASAP! Grate it up. And bake these fabulous zucchini flaxseed muffins pronto.

Moonlight and magic might be afoot.

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My Best Gluten-Free Apple Crisp

The best gluten-free apple crisp I've made. In this lifetime anyway.

The I in my disease.

I've been pondering identity lately. As in, am I the I writing this as Gluten-Free Goddess--- or am I a word-free, less defined kind of I that isn't actually I at all, but merely a spark in the collective energy source that is the Great Mystery? Or Universe. Or Divine. Or whatever conceptual nomenclature you prefer.

Am I my thinking mind- or am I more of an essence, what we call soul, a truth beyond the assumed collection of thought patterns, personality traits, and personal history framed by a set of beliefs and separation known as the ego?

I do know I am not my disease.

One of the reasons I chose not to use the word celiac in my blog title was for just this very reason. I do not define myself as a celiac. In an identity sense. I do not identify with my this disease. That would be identifying with my gastro-functional limitations.

Hello, my name is Karina. And I have screwed up villi.

But I am not my screwed up villi. Just as I am not my post-cataract lens implants. Or my mended broken hip. Or the silvery streaked hair that bristles like a squirrel on this prone-to-migraines head. I am also not this post-menopausal body that has brilliantly succumbed to a gravitational force superior than lunges and squats (in the end gravity wins, I am sorry to tell you).
 
The older I get, I find less and less comfort in defining myself at all- never mind defining myself by my various bodily quirks (not to mention, my southerly migrating butt). I derive no solace in my mental quirks either. My beliefs, or assumptions, or my random monkey thoughts. Even my skills are a poor capture of who I really am. I do not identify with how many paintings I've painted or sold, or how many likes I receive on Instagram. I do not crave recognition as a mirror. The alleged prize of fame and fortune remains less than compelling, my least urgent motivator.

I instead wander the hours of my days seeking answers that lead to more questions. Not answers that close the book. As in, subscribing to a system that has it all "figured out".

As Anne Lamott likes to say, certainty is the opposite of faith.

Certainty is finite.

The end of growth. It clips the wings of possibility- the bigger truth that exists beyond my small understanding. Closing the book on the question of Who am I, exactly? would be foolish. The Big Mystery is far greater and more full of awesome than I can ever attempt to imagine. And whatever micro-teeny part I play in this infinite universal system called Life, I intuitively know one aspect of it, thanks to five-plus decades of living. Whatever It is, It is fluid. Everything changes. Including time. The past, present and future. The Universe (it's expanding, you know, faster than they first calculated). My experiential perception of myself (also expanding). The I that does not exist, because the I is only ego. The nattering, unreliable voice in my head.

So if this I does not exist--- who is craving this apple crisp?

Perhaps the only sensible response is this.

Be one with the apple crisp.

Now that I can do.




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