Ever bake with buckwheat flour?

It makes your batter grey.  Yes, grey!  I’m a bit unnerved by it, but, since I am a buckwheat virgin, I am going with the flow, acting as if I know what the hell is going on, as any good virgin will do.

Yesterday began a bit haphazardly when I was cleverly outsmarted and daringly attacked by my blueberries.

(Yes, the little round things you eat.)

It takes a lot of preplanning to be a mother.  The older the children get, the more running around one does (so watch out how much you new mamas drool with joy when baby takes first steps!)  They tell me the high school years are a real picnic.

And so I find myself eating a lot in my car.  Simply because I don’t have time to eat as mankind should, in the comfort of one’s home over a crinkly, fresh edition of The New York Times (until someone gives me an iPad, I remain a paper die-hard.)  And the car becomes my refuge.

Now pat me on the back somewhat because I could resort to the temptation of a meal fit for a car:  a bagel, Mcsomething, or donut.   But those of you who know me better, or even slightly, understand completely that I would never ingest such crap.  And so, my convertible mini cooper has become something of a one-woman-specialty-food-truck/tiny car.  Mornings waiting in carpool for my son’s school to open are enjoyed with a green onion and lox frittata, a roasted veggie and feta cheese omelete, or, as I prepared yesterday, steel-cut oatmeal simmered with walnuts, blueberries and cinnamon.

I cram my culinary treasures into my teenage daughter’s discarded Princess thermos (okay, so it was discarded a long, long time ago), throw in a disposable fork or spoon, and off it goes with me to be eaten in between traffic lights.

You can imagine this breakfast experience is sadly uneventful, save for the important factor of getting tasty nutrition at the appropriate time (‘do you want cranky mommy?’ is the go-to question in my house if I don’t eat when I should.)

This morning I was surprised by a rogue blueberry, who, as I plunged my plastic spoon into my oatmeal to grab a scoop (apparently side-swiping the alleged fruit), shot a resentful spray of hot blue juice right into my left eye, forehead and shoulder.

“I’ve been hit!” I screamed, laughter expressing the shock.  My ten-year old son looked at me with disgust.  I’ve been known to be a prankster, but this was even beyond my realm of stupidity.  And distracting him from his video game just wasn’t cool.

“Mom?  Are you okay?”  He felt compelled to ask, glancing at me for a nano second.  I could see the wheels turning fervently in his mind but ends couldn’t meet on this one and his mother’s incessant laughter was little explanation.

When I did catch my breath and finally explain, play-by-play, what had happened, he let out a disappointed sigh, shrugged his shoulders and continued flying his tiny kitten through space, avoiding dynamite and catching floating milk bottles.

The attack stuck with me for the remainder of the day and since then I have been eyeing the leftover blueberries in my fridge with skepticism and, dare say I, a bit concern.   My left eyelid remains a bit tender (who knew hot fruit could leave such an impression) and I feel the need to eliminate all traces of the fruit until, at least, the pain goes away.

And so I came across this buckwheat blueberry muffin recipe.  It seems delicious and healthy.  It was in The New York Times, so, that’s a good start.  And it takes care of my blueberry situation in a humane manner (who doesn’t like a good blueberry muffin?)  All for a good cause, and hopefully, a tasty palate.  I just will be paying close attention to each bite, and maybe, don a pair of sunglasses, just in case.

Start by having roasted a turkey in 2012.  Preferably December.  Hopefully, in your turkey-induced stupor, you had the wherewithal to save to turkey carcass.  Maybe got a little clever and saved some meat on the bone (if family members allowed it:  mine simply never found out.)

2013 is fresh with promise.  Fresh with unbroken resolutions (for some, at least.)  I’ve already eaten too much bread, because I am weak.  And I love bread.  Am willing to live with the gut strapped around me because of it.  But I digress.  Back to the turkey carcass…

Throw that into a soup pot.  Actually, mine was too large to fit into a bag so I just threw it into my soup pot and refrigerated that until I was ready to use it.

Hey, if you have homemade gravy leftover from that crazy I-wanna-remake-Thanksgiving-dinner-on-December-17-just-because moment, dump that into the soup pot as well.

Now come the trimmings for this Welcome 2013 soup:

Grab some real good potatoes.  I went to Costco and bought those mega-huge football size things (whoever grew those definitely catered to bunker folks betting on the Mayans to be right and the world to end 2012).  Anyhow, those puppies are tasty good.  Grab one of those and chop it up.  Then add the usual soup suspects:

Carrots, onion, celery, chicken stock, salt and pepper.

Throw in some lentils to the mix.  I said one cup originally, Husband said two.

I added one (because mamacita is always right).  The final result was good.  But not quite right.  On the sly, I added Husband’s other cup (because mamacita is always right.)  Perfect.

Then simmer.  Simmer and think of all the things you are going to get done this year:

Visit the gym more often (or at all.)

Read more philosophy (or an ezine at least.)

Make a positive contribution to your community (or your household, at best.)

You can even go ahead and throw in the weight loss resolution.  This soup won’t get in the way, too much.  And it is all worth it anyway because when you have this hot bowl of goodness in front of you, and you go ahead and drizzle in some extra virgin olive oil (my late and great father-in-law’s tradition), anything is possible, particularily a successful 2013!

He watched it ooze and bubble and grow steadily under the flame, his eyes widening in awe with the rhythm of the melted mess he was creating.  This was no ordinary activity.  This was the best activity for a cold, cloudy, rainy Wednesday, a day that kept him trapped indoors instead of his usual outdoor setting of trampoline jumping and dog chasing.

Playing with fire was my ten-year old son’s version of being antsy.  I needed to redirect, and fast.

“Whatcha doing there?” I asked, feigning as much casualness as my terror instinct allowed.

“Melting a marshmallow,” Son replied, equally unphased.

Black scabs formed on the petrified victim, a super-sized Jet Puffed marshmallow ruthlessly pinned to a fork.  My fine bought-in-Italy fork.

This had to end and fast.  I had to think of a distraction.

I turned on the television and put his favorite cartoon on.  It did nothing to deter him from his pyromania.

I called our puppy, his favorite play thing, and began bouncing his ball around and playing tug of war with him in the cramped kitchen, risking collateral damage all in the hopes of engaging my son.

Nada.

Flames have a way of mesmerizing him.  He was hyperfocused on the destruction of sugar.

“Are you going to eat that?” I asked, desperately.

“Naah.  It’s too burnt.  I like my marshmallows gooey but good, like we had them at summer camp,” he offered, allowing me a sliver into his and his sister’s coveted secret world of summer camp.

And that is when inspiration hit!  Of course!  Summer!  Marshmallows!  S’mores!!!

My genius moment was quickly deflated by the thought that embarking on a s’mores project would inevitably entail more flames for toasting the marshmallows, and as much as I wanted to bring home the joy of summer, there’s a reason they do this stuff at camp and not in my sleek kitchen.

Still, s’mores had invaded my thoughts now.  That is the perfect combo of childhood yumminess:  melted marshmallows with chocolate and graham crackers.  There had to be another way to relive it without possibly burning down the house.

At that point my daughter pounced into the kitchen and looked with horror at the disaster her younger brother was making.

“Mom!” she castigated in the tone of a seasoned caregiver.  “Don’t let him do this mess! Make a s’mores pie instead.”  And with that, she was gone.  A fleeting vision of inspiration.  A true moderator.  My beloved problem solver had planted her seed and disappeared, back to her Facebook or her Skype or whatever other technological trend had a hold of her 13-year old mind.

‘S’mores pie, of course,’ I grinned.    And even my daughter’s brief entrance had made an impression on my son, who, for once, looked up from his fiery disaster.

“Hmmm. That sounds good mom.  Let’s do that,” he echoed.

As quickly as a marshmallow turns to a crisp I grabbed my distressed Italian fork from his grasp and turned off the fire that so readily had grasped his attention.

“Let’s put a bunch of marshmallows on the top of the pie and watch them grow in the oven,” I urged, seeing the spark of excitement light anew in my son’s mischievous eyes.

In Mexico they call me “guerita” but I’m really a gringa at heart.  Sure I am a sucker for mole, (especially the dark black Oaxaqueño type with its 72 mysterious ingredients) and I can never turn down a street quesadilla (how does that fresh white cheese ooze and ooze so much?) but there’s something about being out of the United States that makes me yearn for certain American foods a little bit more.

Take peanut butter, for example.

Now, peanuts are big in the culinary world of Mexico.  They call them cacahuates here, and they are everywhere.  First and foremost, there’s plain cacahuates as a botana, or snack.  Go to the markets or cheese trucks and you’ll find huge sacks of them for sale:  plain, the Mexican favorite, sal con limon, (salt with lime) or the uber Mexican favorite:  chile, sal y limon (lime, salt and chile).

This is a serious Mexican snack.  I keep a stash of the stuff in my desk drawer and my hand grabs regularly as my creative process unfolds.  Poe had opium, I have this.  There’s something about that tangy, salty crunch with a spicy aftertaste that feeds on the addictive tendency of a writer.

Cacahuates make their appearance in Mexican main courses as well.   Soups are a popular starter in Mexico and there is no forgetting the tantalizingly smooth and rich, Crema de Cacahuate (Peanut Cream soup).  Pollo en Salsa de Cacahuate competes with the equally delicious Lomo en Salsa de Cacahuate for a combo of crunchy, tangy, and salty- it just depends if you are in the mood for chicken or meat.  And of course, I cannot ignore the world of moles again- this time the  Mole Poblano, hailing from the colonial town of Puebla, whose rich accent is on nuts in general, including cacahuates.

So peanuts dance in my Mexican palate frequently.  Still, sometimes something missing.   Even on days bursting with market-going, friendly, beautiful scenery Mexico I may return to my apartment with a longing, a want, a vacuum for the United States that even wonderful Mexico cannot appease:  perhaps I miss the quiet of my hometown suburban street, a hassle-free visit to the bank, or simply a run to Target for a much-needed something or other. It is funny how much  you miss Target when it is not around the corner, or around the country for that matter.

These are my American nostalgia moments. They seem to be rhythmical pinnings that affect my kids and I at the same time.  Placating the kids may prove to be trickier.  Their nostalgia is so linked with their entire world: the home they grew up with, their best buddies from forever, and especially visits to movie theaters that play movies ONLY in English.  But food, as always, has a way of creeping into our soft spots and tender moments and  when they start craving a taste of the United States, I know exactly where to go:  down deep into the secret depths of my pantry where I pull out my coveted jar of Skippy’s peanut butter and plan for an all out attack against The Gringo Blues.

My son’s eyes light up when he sees me with the jar.  He knows happiness is 12.5 minutes away.  I will mix this simple batter in minutes and the whole house will lighten up with its creamy, sweet flavor, instantly bringing moments of sunshine, friendship and good ole’ fashion love.  The jar is a prized collection kept in an undisclosed location of my pantry- purchased here in Mexico but imported from the U.S.  Only to be used in emergencies, I warn family members.  Craving Target slushies warrants an emergency, by the way.

So in my beautiful Mexican kitchen I mix and sugar and flatten the dough, dreaming of dreamy moments I left behind in the peace and quiet of South Florida.  Things are always remembered fondly under the aroma of baking cookies- no matter what the recollection is.  Today’s memory consists of my son climbing his fortress, his favorite tree out front in our yard back home and my daughter giggling endlessly with her BFF whom she’s been BFFs with since age three.  They are American memories mingling lazily with the baking of these cookies.

Life isn’t bad in Mexico. The food here is exquisite. The country beautiful. The people friendly.  But nostalgia has a way of wrapping its heartstring around you and not letting go.  And when that happens, best bypass the cacahuate drawer and take a bite of a peanut butter cookie.

Because I’ve had so much carne asada and pollo a la plancha and ensalada and have bypassed bread and cookies and, gasp, even wine.

Because I’ve been so good, forcing myself onto the damn treadmill, elliptical, bicycle (ouch on a poorly designed seat!) And still I ride and run, and walk.

Because I am one that adores food, builds altars for it (usually involving lots of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon) and now my well has gone dry, turned off, chastised and set on zero, all in the name of losing a few pounds.  Okay, maybe more than a few.

Because of all this and more it builds, that pining, destitute, fervent yearning.

It builds quietly while I diligently do my sit-ups.

It builds forcefully while I bake uber-fudge brownies for my kids (and don’t even sample the batter, I don’t!)

And there it is, on the brink of my sanity, I feel that urge, that desire that longing and I know it will burst because there is nowhere left for it to go and Saturday, oh glorious Saturday, Saturday comes along, the day I have allotted to put down my culinary flogging and eat!

I wake , this beautiful sunny Saturday, even the birds seem happier, their chirps welcome me and I rise with an extra oomph in my step, no longer worried by scales and their rising figures or pants and their tightening waistlines, no, no worries on this Saturday of that sort, for I plow my way into the kitchen on this glorious of all glorious days and announce, as loud and clear as a bell:

“Yo quiero chilaquiles!” (I want chilaquiles.)

And there it is. For when you are blessed with the angel of Saturday that is Angelica, my live-in Mexican cook, you make such pronouncements and they aren’t left for your dreams, they do become true.  She makes them so.

So begins the slow simmer of a spicy tomatillo sauce, the gentle layering of fried crunchy totopos (think tortilla chips from heaven) and the quick drizzle of warm sauce topped with generous shredding of Oaxacan cheese (that piece of Nirvana I used to eat so freely, so gleefully, before numbers took a reign of my psyche) and just to top off the decadence, (why not, it is Saturday?) there’s the drizzle of the richest of all riches, la crema, the cream, that needs no further introduction, no glamorous title or fancy name, its mind-boggling flavor says it all- putting all others creams from all other cultures to shame, the Mexicans have it down- this crema is of  the gods and today it belongs on my chilaquiles and in my belly.

Chilaquiles is a favorite breakfast food, usually served with fried eggs and/or shredded chicken, and always with a side of frijoles (beans) but today I want, I need this delicious and fat-loaded taste bomb straight up.  A plateful of goodness comes my way and my smile melts across my still-not-thin-enough face.  I forget all numbers, all calories, all counting, all exercising and  live in the moment: a moment where totopos, salsa de tomatillo, and cheese blend into a crunch, tang, zip, fire, and ooze all smothered in the decadence of the richest cream.  Caloric concerns fade away.  Happiness, on this Saturday, reigns.