"I'm going to die today. How do I NOT die today?"
That was the first thought I had on my commute home Thursday night. After three months of using my indoor training stand, I had finally gotten the rear tire on my bike swapped out for a road tire, the weather was clear and warm, the winds low. I rode my bike to work that morning for the first time in nine months.
It was a beautiful ride. All that indoor training had worked wonders as my first commute of the season was a full 10 minutes shorter than my final commute last autumn. I felt good - that "exercise high" people talk about when you've moved enough with enough intensity to get the endorphins moving.
Then, I had a perfectly normal day at work, finishing my shift with a two hour stint managing the flow of people into the hospital, checking temperatures, verifying their lack of symptoms, feeling grateful that no visitors came to be turned away.
I returned to my office, shut down my work station, put on my bike shorts, strapped on my helmet and headed to the bike cage. I retrieved my bicyle, loaded my pannier on the back, and headed out. I was a mile into my commute, had just crossed the Martin Olav Sabo Bridge, with nothing in my mind except the cadence of my legs, "One, two. One, two. One two....." And on it went.
I turned the curve, began shifting up, reached the highest gear halfway down the east side descent, and felt my body relax into the joy of accomplishment. "I can do this again tomorrow," I thought, as the ease of my commute infused me with confidence.
I was nearing the end of the descent, I looked ahead on the path, the sharp turn to the left so much closer than I had known, my lane covered in loose sand, a clump of bikers in the oncoming lane. I'm traveling at least 16mph and I know that I cannot navigate the turn, on sand, at that speed; I cannot cross into the oncoming lane.
"I'm going to die today. How do I NOT die today?"
I aim for the grass and find myself heading straight at two light poles, firmly planted on either side of a utility box, without clearance between the obstacles. Aiming to go wide, around these items, I find myself barreling headlong toward a small tree. I veer left to clear it - there's enough space between it and the next tree immediately to my left - and I am airborne, flying over my handlebars, and I know, "I am not going to survive this."
I hit the ground. Hard. My right shoulder makes impact along with my head. My head bounces and my face makes contact. The right half of my body is stationary and I feel the left half continuing to slide forward in the hard earth. My neck, back, and hips shift and move in ways I am confident they are not really built to move. I feel dirt and grit in my teeth. My right shoulder hurts. My upper lip got caugt between my top and bottom teeth on impact - I can feel the swelling. My teeth are undamaged.
"Are you okay?" a passing cyclists asks.
"Yes," I say.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, slowing down. "That was bad."
"I'm fine. I'm going to call my husband," I respond, pushing up, noting that this is probably the last time in awhile I'm going to be able to move my arm like this.
"That looked really bad," he says, watching me sit up and begin fumbling for my pannier, which has dislodged from my rack. I look around for my bicyle and see it lying several feet beyond me. The passing cyclist, perhaps assured by the fact that I'm moving about, continues on his ride. Several more cyclists pass on the trail.
My arms are shaking so bad I can barely manage to hold my phone. I cannot move my right arm at all. I begin texting with my left hand - repeatedly deleting mistyped letters.
"Crashed. Need ride." "Hiawatha and 28th"
"Ok. I'm coming. Are you ok?"
"Probably." "I can't really tell." "No blood." "My right arm is useless. Bad headache. Road rash on my mouth."
"Ow. Which corner?"
"South west." I know that if I gather my things, I can walk my bike over to opposite side of the road and sit in a bus bench while I wait.
When Husband arrives, he pulls the bike rack out of the trunk and begins affixing it. "Can you open my door?" I ask him.
"It should be open," he says, pausing to pull his key fob from his pocket and hitting the unlock button. "There you go."
I start to tear up. "I mean, literally," I say to him, "can you literally open my door for me?"
"Oh, shit. Yes," he says, pausing to open the back passenger door. I drop my pannier and helmet on the back seat. He opens the front door and I climb in, using my left hand to pull the door closed behind me and put my seatbelt on, cradling my right forearm against my belly, trying to keep my should from moving. It hurts all the time, but every slight move causes the pain to skyrocket.
Husband insists on medical care. He mentions the emergency department. I have no compound fractures and only a slight amount of blood pooling in my nostrils. I bargain for the urgent care. We swing by the house, as it's on our way, and secure my beautiful bicycle in the garage.
After a brief wait with an ice pack, I am seen by the nurse practioner who evaluates me for a concussion, orders a shot of Toradol and X-rays. I cry through the entire process of having films taken, grateful that I have to hold my breath when the technician takes the images, as it is the only time my ribs are not moving and less of me hurts just slightly less, despite the fact that my shoulder hurts infinitely more.
I have no concussion. Nothing is broken. I am given a sling to help keep my shoulder immobile and ordered to take ibuprofen on schedule - 800mg every 8 hours OR 600mg every 6 hours. When we get home, I realize that my house keys are NOT in the front pocket of my pannier where they ought to be.
Husband and I eat dinner and then head back out to look for them in the grassy area where I crashed my bike. I start to notice the scraped on my elbows, knees, and face. I have a scrape above my right eyebrow where the visor of my helmet slid down and cut into my head upon impact. We see my tire tracks in the dirt where I left the path. The bent grass is just barely discernible in my path to the crash.
"Oh, my god," I keep saying over and over and over again. "I can't believe I didn't die."
"I know," Husband says. "I'm really glad you're still here and it's incredible that you have so few injuries, considering."
I look down. "Hey, look! There's my keys!" I gingerly bend down to pick them up, tuck them in my pocket, and we begin walking back to the car. I'm confident that I will not be riding my bike in the next couple of days, but maybe next week, I think. If my shoulder starts feelings better.
We climb into the car and again, I get my door closed and seat belt buckled using only my left hand and arm. "You should stay off your bike until your tune-up," Husband says. My tune up is in 13 days. "And, you need to replace your helmet."
He is right, of course.
"I'm glad you're alive. I hope this will remind you to be more careful on future rides," he says, squeezing my leg.
Future rides. Yes. I love my bicyle. I love riding. I want to climb into the saddle again. I managed to not die that day. For that, I am grateful.
Saturday, June 13, 2020
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Tomorrow is My Birthday
Content Warning: Lots of self-pity ahead....
*****
For the past several years (since 2009 in fact), I have veered a little toward depression on my birthday. Feelings of failure have plagued me. Back in 2009, the downward spiral was begun by the fact that I was on a two-year medical leave from grad school (initiated by a bout of depression, which included a suicide attempts) and though I knew that I would returning that autumn, in that moment, on that birthday, I felt like everything I had wanted in life was simply out of reach and would never be achievable.
This year, it seems, isn't much different. I don't know if the dead-end, unfulfilling, way-too-easy job I'm working with no prospects for advancement or even lateral movement into a different role with a more interesting set of expectations or if the infertility thing or the fact there's a pandemic raging out my front door and I'm being furloughed from work (which honestly doesn't bother me all that much; it's the fact that my employer has dictated that all furloughed employees who have paid time off available to them are OBLIGATED to use that paid time off to cover their furlough, and I'd take the furlough unpaid because I'm saving that PTO for a vacation, to Budapest, that isn't going to happen this year either, because, you know, there's a pandemic raging outside my front door - and yours, too!).
You know, as I think about, I didn't go through the whole, "Woe is me, I'm a failure, my life has not followed the plans I set at the age of five and I'll never accomplish anything or be good enough" last year. I actually had a great birthday. I celebrated at work with friends. Then, after, I celebrated again at church with other friends.
All of my friends have left my work place. I've made new friends and I'll be celebrating with them tomorrow, but I miss the folks I celebrated with last year - with a trio of cupcakes that I named after volcanoes. Three different flavors. Three different volcanoes.
With work that is not at all taxing and which does not, generally (at least until this morning), spark massive amounts of impotent rage and resentment, I have had a reasonable bit of brain space emptied of anything other than creative ideas.
So, this year, I'm making cupcakes again. This year, I'm making one flavor of cupcakes. I'm only sharing with people at work (my often willing culinary guinea pigs) because I won't be anywhere near the people at my church and because the people from church I want to share my cupcakes with are no longer a part of the church I serve as an at-large member of the council.
Social distancing, physical distancing, COVID containment.... Whatever you call it, there will be few opportunities to celebrate much of anything tomorrow. Not a terrible thing - I don't like big parties and I'd rather celebrate with 47 smaller parties (tea with a friend, lunch with another, cupcakes with colleagues, dinner with hot hot Husband, an accidental encounter with someone I love), but even that is limited this year.
Maybe I did it wrong. Life. Maybe I shouldn't have planned. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to make something of my life. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to have a meaningful existence. Maybe.... Maybe I should stop wanting to make a difference, stop wanting to matter. I'm halfway through my life - maybe more. And all I have to show for that ridiculous master's degree and the years of therapy is another idea for a cupcake.
So, I cry about the whole no babies thing and I fantasize about quitting my job for ... something more (as if that's even a possibility) ... and I fry sage in butter until the butter is browned and the sage is crispy which I will turn it into cupcakes, with a blackberry cream filling, lime buttercream icing, and blackberry and crispy sage accent on top. I will take those cupcakes to my new friends who are work colleagues. And I will ask them to celebrate with me - from at least six feet away - because, after all, tomorrow is my birthday.
*****
For the past several years (since 2009 in fact), I have veered a little toward depression on my birthday. Feelings of failure have plagued me. Back in 2009, the downward spiral was begun by the fact that I was on a two-year medical leave from grad school (initiated by a bout of depression, which included a suicide attempts) and though I knew that I would returning that autumn, in that moment, on that birthday, I felt like everything I had wanted in life was simply out of reach and would never be achievable.
This year, it seems, isn't much different. I don't know if the dead-end, unfulfilling, way-too-easy job I'm working with no prospects for advancement or even lateral movement into a different role with a more interesting set of expectations or if the infertility thing or the fact there's a pandemic raging out my front door and I'm being furloughed from work (which honestly doesn't bother me all that much; it's the fact that my employer has dictated that all furloughed employees who have paid time off available to them are OBLIGATED to use that paid time off to cover their furlough, and I'd take the furlough unpaid because I'm saving that PTO for a vacation, to Budapest, that isn't going to happen this year either, because, you know, there's a pandemic raging outside my front door - and yours, too!).
You know, as I think about, I didn't go through the whole, "Woe is me, I'm a failure, my life has not followed the plans I set at the age of five and I'll never accomplish anything or be good enough" last year. I actually had a great birthday. I celebrated at work with friends. Then, after, I celebrated again at church with other friends.
All of my friends have left my work place. I've made new friends and I'll be celebrating with them tomorrow, but I miss the folks I celebrated with last year - with a trio of cupcakes that I named after volcanoes. Three different flavors. Three different volcanoes.
With work that is not at all taxing and which does not, generally (at least until this morning), spark massive amounts of impotent rage and resentment, I have had a reasonable bit of brain space emptied of anything other than creative ideas.
So, this year, I'm making cupcakes again. This year, I'm making one flavor of cupcakes. I'm only sharing with people at work (my often willing culinary guinea pigs) because I won't be anywhere near the people at my church and because the people from church I want to share my cupcakes with are no longer a part of the church I serve as an at-large member of the council.
Social distancing, physical distancing, COVID containment.... Whatever you call it, there will be few opportunities to celebrate much of anything tomorrow. Not a terrible thing - I don't like big parties and I'd rather celebrate with 47 smaller parties (tea with a friend, lunch with another, cupcakes with colleagues, dinner with hot hot Husband, an accidental encounter with someone I love), but even that is limited this year.
Maybe I did it wrong. Life. Maybe I shouldn't have planned. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to make something of my life. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to have a meaningful existence. Maybe.... Maybe I should stop wanting to make a difference, stop wanting to matter. I'm halfway through my life - maybe more. And all I have to show for that ridiculous master's degree and the years of therapy is another idea for a cupcake.
So, I cry about the whole no babies thing and I fantasize about quitting my job for ... something more (as if that's even a possibility) ... and I fry sage in butter until the butter is browned and the sage is crispy which I will turn it into cupcakes, with a blackberry cream filling, lime buttercream icing, and blackberry and crispy sage accent on top. I will take those cupcakes to my new friends who are work colleagues. And I will ask them to celebrate with me - from at least six feet away - because, after all, tomorrow is my birthday.
Saturday, March 28, 2020
On Dying Dreams
Last night I dreamt that I was lying in bed, curled in a fetal position, crying inconsolably.
This is not an uncommon dream these days. I've had it about six times since January 15, 2020.
We had just returned from vacation the day before and our only real task that morning was a visit to the urologist. (In fairness, Husband had a LOT of tasks on his list in preparation for the coming semester and I had laundry and cooking on my list, but the only really IMPORTANT thing, so far as I was concerned, was that visit to the urologist).
It's strange, sitting or standing in the exam room of a urology clinic, looking at charts and models of male and female urogenital anatomy and reading little blurbs and numbers about things like how many couples face infertility and whose body contributes at what rates, while my husband produces a sample for the doctor and I try to offer him privacy, knowing that I want to peak through the microscope at what's on the slide and that this happens in such short order I can't exactly wait in the lobby and hope to be called back when things are prepared.
The slide looks empty at first, and then I see one and then another - sperm that are wiggling with all their might, going nowhere.
This isn't right. The last time we went through this, there were sperm everywhere and they were swimming across that slide like champions - our own little storehouse of Michael Phelpses. "So, your numbers and motility are both down substantially in the last three months," the urologist says.
We return to the exam room and all take seats. "I mean, we got back from vacation yesterday," I say, holding onto anything that might offer a glimmer of hope. "Between the hot tubs, cases of wine, and blackberry gummy edibles...."
"It's possible," says the urologist. "What's probable when we see unproductive motility is the presence of Anti-Sperm Antibodies (ASAs). They grab onto the tails and prevent them from propelling forward."
I'm a married to a guy who does statistical modeling for a living because he finds it fun. Okay, fun is an overstatement. I don't get it and when I ask, he tells me, "It's really, really interesting and when something works, it's really, really cool." When the urologist says, "probable," I know what that means.
The glimmer of hope I had been holding onto is extinguished.
"So," I ask, already anticipating an answer in the negative, "would that mean IUI?"
"No," the urologist says. "That means IVF would be your only option. If that's something you're open to exploring, I can give you a referral for more testing, but at this point, if you're not considering IVF, there's not much point."
We headed home with a referral for more testing, though I had already drawn my line in the sand. I knew that IVF would not be an option for me.
Still, we did more testing and by the end of January learned that, yes, ASAs were the culprit. Yes, IVF would be our only option for a biological child. For me to become pregnant, to generate life, to carry and birth a new human.
I don't actually know anything about the experience of IVF. I have a general knowledge of how it works, but I don't actually know the nitty-gritty details. So, reconsidering my line in the sand and wanting to have all the information before making a decision, I registered Husband and myself for a "Demystifying IVF" seminar. February 13, 2020, we had the sexiest, most depressing Valentine's date in the history of the multiverse.
As it turns out, IVF is even more horrifying than I had imagined. On top of that, with ASA factor infertility, standard IVF is not an option. We would be looking at ICSI and IVF - where they pick the single best sperm available and inject that single sperm in the the single best egg available and hope for the best - with significantly increased risk to the resulting embryo. Fortunately, I do not have to even consider this. We are ruled out of IVF for other medical reasons.
So, that's it. The end of the options.
I have spent my entire life doing the necessary internal healing work with one goal in mind - to create a life that was conducive to generating life, to raising children in a safe and health home.
Now, I know. It took too long, the obstacles were too many, and the amount of trauma that needed to be transformed was just too much.
It appears that in building a life for children I will never have, I managed to build an extraordinary life for myself. And I am not a hedonist. I do not want to live exclusively for my own pleasure and comfort.
Whenever I stop to think about these things, something like hope and joy come bubbling up to the surface. "Grace abounds," is the refrain filling my entire being. "Even in this, grace abounds."
Still, when I sleep and the world falls away and my mind has space to feel the loss and grief, I dream about the grief of dying dreams. And I weep.
This is not an uncommon dream these days. I've had it about six times since January 15, 2020.
We had just returned from vacation the day before and our only real task that morning was a visit to the urologist. (In fairness, Husband had a LOT of tasks on his list in preparation for the coming semester and I had laundry and cooking on my list, but the only really IMPORTANT thing, so far as I was concerned, was that visit to the urologist).
It's strange, sitting or standing in the exam room of a urology clinic, looking at charts and models of male and female urogenital anatomy and reading little blurbs and numbers about things like how many couples face infertility and whose body contributes at what rates, while my husband produces a sample for the doctor and I try to offer him privacy, knowing that I want to peak through the microscope at what's on the slide and that this happens in such short order I can't exactly wait in the lobby and hope to be called back when things are prepared.
The slide looks empty at first, and then I see one and then another - sperm that are wiggling with all their might, going nowhere.
This isn't right. The last time we went through this, there were sperm everywhere and they were swimming across that slide like champions - our own little storehouse of Michael Phelpses. "So, your numbers and motility are both down substantially in the last three months," the urologist says.
We return to the exam room and all take seats. "I mean, we got back from vacation yesterday," I say, holding onto anything that might offer a glimmer of hope. "Between the hot tubs, cases of wine, and blackberry gummy edibles...."
"It's possible," says the urologist. "What's probable when we see unproductive motility is the presence of Anti-Sperm Antibodies (ASAs). They grab onto the tails and prevent them from propelling forward."
I'm a married to a guy who does statistical modeling for a living because he finds it fun. Okay, fun is an overstatement. I don't get it and when I ask, he tells me, "It's really, really interesting and when something works, it's really, really cool." When the urologist says, "probable," I know what that means.
The glimmer of hope I had been holding onto is extinguished.
"So," I ask, already anticipating an answer in the negative, "would that mean IUI?"
"No," the urologist says. "That means IVF would be your only option. If that's something you're open to exploring, I can give you a referral for more testing, but at this point, if you're not considering IVF, there's not much point."
We headed home with a referral for more testing, though I had already drawn my line in the sand. I knew that IVF would not be an option for me.
Still, we did more testing and by the end of January learned that, yes, ASAs were the culprit. Yes, IVF would be our only option for a biological child. For me to become pregnant, to generate life, to carry and birth a new human.
I don't actually know anything about the experience of IVF. I have a general knowledge of how it works, but I don't actually know the nitty-gritty details. So, reconsidering my line in the sand and wanting to have all the information before making a decision, I registered Husband and myself for a "Demystifying IVF" seminar. February 13, 2020, we had the sexiest, most depressing Valentine's date in the history of the multiverse.
As it turns out, IVF is even more horrifying than I had imagined. On top of that, with ASA factor infertility, standard IVF is not an option. We would be looking at ICSI and IVF - where they pick the single best sperm available and inject that single sperm in the the single best egg available and hope for the best - with significantly increased risk to the resulting embryo. Fortunately, I do not have to even consider this. We are ruled out of IVF for other medical reasons.
So, that's it. The end of the options.
I have spent my entire life doing the necessary internal healing work with one goal in mind - to create a life that was conducive to generating life, to raising children in a safe and health home.
Now, I know. It took too long, the obstacles were too many, and the amount of trauma that needed to be transformed was just too much.
It appears that in building a life for children I will never have, I managed to build an extraordinary life for myself. And I am not a hedonist. I do not want to live exclusively for my own pleasure and comfort.
Whenever I stop to think about these things, something like hope and joy come bubbling up to the surface. "Grace abounds," is the refrain filling my entire being. "Even in this, grace abounds."
Still, when I sleep and the world falls away and my mind has space to feel the loss and grief, I dream about the grief of dying dreams. And I weep.
Sunday, March 22, 2020
Bittersweet Chocolate and Montmorency Cherry Scones
Having been convinced, by a candle that smells like Gwyneth Paltow's vagina, that the only way to survive the pandemic is "clean" eating, I broke out the bag of turbinado (raw) sugar that's been sitting in the pantry for two years and made a batch of scones. They're baking in the oven as I type this.
I have no idea how they'll turn out. I've never made scones before today. I like scones, but if I'm going to whip up something in the kitchen, it's usually something to feed a crowd (like a couple dozen cupcakes) or that can be single-serving frozen (like cookie dough) for the need-to-have-now cravings that occasionally make their appearance.
Every once in awhile, I'll pick up a scone for myself from our local co-op while grabbing a rustic croissant for my super hot Husband. Husband treats croissants like a guilty pleasure and rarely eats them in front of me - saving it for a snack (he swears). Not wanting to moan in glutinous, pastry based ecstasy is my hunch.
The problem with the local co-op scones is that they're way too dense. A common problem with gluten-free baked goods of all varieties. I mean, my wedding cake was delicious and I could have done better at home with one hand tied behind my back. It wouldn't have been as pretty and I love the pictures that will eventually make their way into our wedding album, if we ever find the time to sit down and prioritize those pictures we want highlighted. Perhaps this pandemic and the requisite extra time at home will make that happen.
That, however, is really neither here nor there. It's somewhere in the ether. What's here is scones - or the recipe for scones. What's there is the actual scones baking in my kitchen oven.
I used this recipe by Stella Parks as a base for my first scone experiment. I'm not such a fan of milk chocolate in my baked goods. Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle convinced me that "closer to the natural state" is the only thing that will save us. So, I swapped out the milk chocolate and added bittersweet chocolate instead. Being celiac, I also substituted gluten-free flour for the all purpose flour. Then, deciding that what a scone with bittersweet chocolate truly needed was some montmorency cherries and almond, I adjusted the amount of flour to accommodate blanched almond flour and cut back on the amount of chocolate to accommodate some dried cherries.
Here's the modified recipe:
7 ounces gluten-free flour
2 ounces blanched almond flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp kosher salt
2 tsp sugar
2 ounces high-fat butter (Hope Creamery)
3 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
2 1/2 ounces dried montmorency cherries
2 ounces whole milk
6 ounces heavy whipping cream
1 tsp almond extract
Turbinado sugar for sprinkling
Pre-heat the oven to 400F.
Whisk together the flours, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the butter until it all forms a coarse meal. Stir in the chocolate and cherries. Make a well in the center and pour in the milk, cream, and extract. Mix to combine.
Turn the dough out onto a piece of parchment paper and shape into a 7" round. (Rather than buy one of those fancy boards or try to draw a 7" circle on my paper, I placed my parchment paper on the bottom of an 8" round cake pan and patted the dough out to within 1/2" of the pan edges).
Cut into six wedges, sprinkle with a bit of turbinado sugar, and transfer the parchment paper to a baking sheet. Bake for 25 minutes.
I just heard the kitchen timer warn me that there is one minute left in baking. Let's hope this worked well and that they taste better than Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle smells.
I have no idea how they'll turn out. I've never made scones before today. I like scones, but if I'm going to whip up something in the kitchen, it's usually something to feed a crowd (like a couple dozen cupcakes) or that can be single-serving frozen (like cookie dough) for the need-to-have-now cravings that occasionally make their appearance.
Every once in awhile, I'll pick up a scone for myself from our local co-op while grabbing a rustic croissant for my super hot Husband. Husband treats croissants like a guilty pleasure and rarely eats them in front of me - saving it for a snack (he swears). Not wanting to moan in glutinous, pastry based ecstasy is my hunch.
The problem with the local co-op scones is that they're way too dense. A common problem with gluten-free baked goods of all varieties. I mean, my wedding cake was delicious and I could have done better at home with one hand tied behind my back. It wouldn't have been as pretty and I love the pictures that will eventually make their way into our wedding album, if we ever find the time to sit down and prioritize those pictures we want highlighted. Perhaps this pandemic and the requisite extra time at home will make that happen.
That, however, is really neither here nor there. It's somewhere in the ether. What's here is scones - or the recipe for scones. What's there is the actual scones baking in my kitchen oven.
I used this recipe by Stella Parks as a base for my first scone experiment. I'm not such a fan of milk chocolate in my baked goods. Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle convinced me that "closer to the natural state" is the only thing that will save us. So, I swapped out the milk chocolate and added bittersweet chocolate instead. Being celiac, I also substituted gluten-free flour for the all purpose flour. Then, deciding that what a scone with bittersweet chocolate truly needed was some montmorency cherries and almond, I adjusted the amount of flour to accommodate blanched almond flour and cut back on the amount of chocolate to accommodate some dried cherries.
Here's the modified recipe:
7 ounces gluten-free flour
2 ounces blanched almond flour
1 Tbsp baking powder
1 tsp kosher salt
2 tsp sugar
2 ounces high-fat butter (Hope Creamery)
3 1/2 ounces bittersweet chocolate chips
2 1/2 ounces dried montmorency cherries
2 ounces whole milk
6 ounces heavy whipping cream
1 tsp almond extract
Turbinado sugar for sprinkling
Pre-heat the oven to 400F.
Whisk together the flours, baking powder, salt, and sugar. Cut in the butter until it all forms a coarse meal. Stir in the chocolate and cherries. Make a well in the center and pour in the milk, cream, and extract. Mix to combine.
Turn the dough out onto a piece of parchment paper and shape into a 7" round. (Rather than buy one of those fancy boards or try to draw a 7" circle on my paper, I placed my parchment paper on the bottom of an 8" round cake pan and patted the dough out to within 1/2" of the pan edges).
Cut into six wedges, sprinkle with a bit of turbinado sugar, and transfer the parchment paper to a baking sheet. Bake for 25 minutes.
I just heard the kitchen timer warn me that there is one minute left in baking. Let's hope this worked well and that they taste better than Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina candle smells.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)